


The Case of the Disappearing New New Yorkers

by Pygmy Puff (ppuff)



Category: Doctor Who, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Adventure, Brick!Canon, Case Fic, Character Disappearances/Abduction/Trafficking, Competent!Javert, Competent!Madeleine, Enemy to Friends to (maybe) Lovers (if they would cooperate), Fish Fingers and Custards, M/M, Madeleine Era, Madeleine angsting over his faith, Mystery, References to DW s03e03 Gridlock, Talks of city politics, There is actual plot, Time Travel, new new york, space travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 94,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ppuff/pseuds/Pygmy%20Puff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a mysterious blue box brought two strangers into Montreuil-sur-Mer, Inspector Javert was the first to investigate. Mayor Madeleine was the first to play host. Neither expected to become entangled in the mystery of disappearing New New Yorkers five billion years into the future, a case that required Madeleine and Javert to set aside their differences and learn to trust each other.</p><p>Set in 1820, Madeleine's first year as Mayor. Javert had newly arrived as Montreuil-sur-Mer's inspector. Also set post-The Name of the Doctor, an adventure after the Doctor and Clara's first visit to Tranzalore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How It All Began

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at both Les Mis and Doctor Who fanfic. I've just discovered the delight that is the Javert/Valjean pairing despite having read the Brick 15+ years ago. I've always thought that if Hugo gave those two just a bit more time, their relationship would blossom on its own. So more time I gave them -- thank you, Doctor!
> 
> The story has been fully drafted. I plan to update regularly.

In a seemingly abandoned alleyway that saw more traffic from vermin and insects than the filth-crusted feet of beggars and orphans, a rustle of wind that had no explicable origin whirled up fallen leaves in a circular dance. Soon after the wind, the sound followed, a grating wheeze unlike any noise heretofore produced by man or by machinery at the factories. By the time a faint outline of a structure appeared, accentuated by a luminous light that held a color unnatural to either sun, moon, or the stars, the sole witness of the strange event—a boy who knew no more of his true age than the names of his parents—had fled in terror.

The door of what was now clearly a blue box opened, letting out a man and a woman, both dressed in curious clothing and who carried themselves with such an air of confidence that showed they did not mind being so obviously nonconforming (and indeed, nonconform _able_ ) to the environment in which they now found themselves.

“Ah, Paris. Been here many times before. In fact, I still remember being plopped right in the midst of the Reign of Terror when I was my first self. I was young and naïve then, nearly got the heads of my companions cut off.” The man grimaced at the memory of what was inferred to be long ago, but which surely defied logic when anyone who might take in his appearance would judge him no older than thirty-two. His face immediately brightened at the thought of another memory. “You should have seen the hat I wore then, Clara! A masterpiece of a head gear with feathers at least a foot high! And a sash to complete the regality. It would do my fez proud.”

The woman whom her male companion called Clara looked like she was going to bemoan her travel-mate’s aesthetic tastes, but then seemed to reconsider when she sniffed the air. “Hang on, Doctor, Paris you say? It doesn’t smell like Paris to me.”

“Oh? And how would you know?” the man known as the Doctor grumbled, though unable to resist taking a sniff himself. “Can’t see why this isn’t Paris to me,” he said after closing his eyes, as if he were trying to analyze what he smelled. “High density of pollutants in the air coming from the east, probably from some environmentally unfriendly factories. Moisture coming from the west. We might be pretty close to the Seine—HA!” He pointed directly in front of him, toward a mossy bank and a hint of a river gleaming in the sunlight. The brightness of the riverbank was a contrast to the dark alleyway in which they stood. “A river, see? And here you are accusing me of bad piloting. Sorry, TARDIS my Old Girl—” He turned to the curiously named box that brought them to this place as if speaking to a sentient being, and continued in a rather loud stage whisper, “—she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Clara rolled her eyes, but waited patiently as the Doctor finished appeasing what could only be ascertained as their vehicle, yet appeared to be so much more. “I know what Paris is like, Doctor. Didn’t I tell you one of my fractured selves was there with you that time, seeing you wear that atrocious hat? Who did you think convinced those ladies to look out for Barbara and Susan to intercept their wagon on the way to the guillotine?” She smiled when the man’s face showed first surprise, then gratitude, then finally a grin and words that sounded like _Oh Clara, you didn’t_. “And besides, the water smells too clean. And I think I caught a whiff of something more than a river, more like the sea. We’re pretty close to some larger body of water, Doctor.”

It was obvious that despite the possibility of being proven wrong, the Doctor was curious to know where he was. It was then that he caught sight of a boy—the same boy who fled earlier but had decided against his better judgment to return—who now realized his presence had been discovered and was deciding between fleeing or fainting.

“Hello there,” the Doctor called out in a bright and cheery tone. “I’m the Doctor, and this is Clara. Can you tell us where we are, and what year we are in?”

The boy looked uncertainly from the Doctor to Clara, then back to the Doctor again, as if trying to wake himself from a bizarre dream. At length, he seemed to have realized that the specters were not going to disappear on their own until he answered them. “This place is Montreuil-sur-Mer, Monsieur, and we are in the year of our Lord 1820.” Then he fled.

The Doctor clapped his hands. “Well, Clara, let’s have a look around, shall we?” His eagerness faltered when he turned and found his companion with her arms crossed and a face taken over by a smug grin. “What? Oh come on, I wasn’t that far off. Just a few… tens… a hundred fifty or so… miles away, and maybe several decades too early. See, this is what happens when—” He scrambled for words, his arms gesturing wildly about. “—when _you_ , yes, when you insist on playing music while we fly!”

The growing redness on his face would prove to any observer that the Doctor was failing very badly at trying to look calm and collected. He dug his hands into his trouser pockets, sullen and ill at ease.

It did not take long for Clara to take pity on him. Walking up to link her arms with the Doctor’s as an offering of a truce, she said in a pleasant tone, “Yes, let’s go walk around.”

The two visitors thus left their box unattended and walked into the sunlight, behaving every bit as strangely as they appeared.

-

Javert had taken to the habit of patrolling the streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer even after his shift ended, a sign of a diligent inspector who had just been transferred to the city’s stationhouse mere months ago, eager to learn each nook and cranny of his assigned jurisdiction. Already he believed himself to know more than his colleagues who had served decades in this bustling city, which only three years ago was as destitute as nearby villages until one Father Madeleine founded his factory in 1817 and subsequently became the Mayor of the city.

There was the city’s center, which with the Mayor’s factory, the mairie, hospital, school, orphanage, the police constabulary, and other respectable institutions, was rarely the scene of abominable crimes such as theft, prostitution, and murder. Javert considered each of these crimes heinous, for they heightened the lawlessness and rebellion of men at the expense of respect for authority and respect for the eternally judging God. That theft was bundled with offenses which most would deem more grievous convinced Javert how little understanding humanity possessed of the law. Bad trees bore bad fruits, even the Lord said no good fruit could come of bad trees. For one to steal once was proof enough that he had a conscience of a beast, that is to say, a bad fruit without hope for redemption.

And like flies attracted to rotting fruits, Javert trailed the abominations of society with ever watchful eyes, those he considered too depraved to live honest, honorable lives.

The sight he saw today, however, was not one of the fallen souls: A _gamin_ who looked terrified and obviously fleeing from something. But the boy did not look guilty; nor did he hold anything in his hands. The tattered rags he tried to cover his body with were insufficient for their intended function, thus would be even less useful to provide cover for any stolen item. No, this was a boy who had seen horror that doubtless caused his body first to freeze, forcing him to take in the fullness of the vision in question, before locating his survival instincts to run.

Javert’s eyes retraced the path of the boy. It led to a dark alleyway, one that he had become quite acquainted with. He snarled, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Had the prostitutes no decency (though why would they?) that they could not wait until nighttime to commit their sins? Feeling a righteous rage build inside him, Javert walked with sure steps toward the alleyway, confident as a tiger, but silent as a mouse.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight before him when he rounded the corner. Before him stood a… _thing_ , a blue box not large enough to be a hut but too big to be a coffin. At the top of the box was a small domed object whose function Javert could not surmise. There was a door, so the structure was built to be entered. And by the designation of the badge outside the door, it could be affiliated with a monastic order of some sorts (Saint John he understood, Ambulance, he did not). The windows were made of glass-like panes but he could not see past its opacity into the structure’s interior. There was, finally, what appeared to be a compartment directly left to the door handle, which at first glance he caught the words “free,” “public,” and “pull to open.”

All of the characteristics that Javert noted above were made with the practiced eye of an inspector, thorough but without emotional interest. Where his eyes found themselves unyieldingly fixed upon, however, was the top panel that consisted four words, the larger two of which unmistakably spelled: POLICE BOX.

Quick as the rushing waters escaping a ruptured dam, two emotions rose inside Javert, warring one with another. The first was fury. He had long believed that those who commit crimes under the guise of honor and magistracy were far worse than the common wretch. To cloak oneself with the light of an angel while plotting sin was hypocrisy. Hypocrites were desecraters of all things truthful and just, and thus, in the eyes of Javert, all the more damnable in the eyes of the law. Having known the alleyway to be a site for crimes, Javert ruled out any possibility that the box appeared by order of the Prefecture. After all, as the chief investigator of the constabulary, he would have been notified if such an object were to be placed within Montreuil-sur-Mer. Thus there could be only one reason for an artifact bearing the name of the police to appear in this part of the city: bandits were planning to commit crimes posing as agents of the law.

At the same time, Javert could not suppress the undeniable curiosity that was growing in equal force within him. What was this mysterious object? Had it a purpose for good, if it were handed over to the police? The two words, POLICE BOX, seemed to alternately blur and came into sharp focus as he continued to stare at them. It was a struggle he knew he would lose, curiosity growing fiercer by the minute even as his initial fury subsided. Slowly, as if on their own accord, Javert found his feet carrying him closer to the box.

The first touch was almost disappointing, as he quickly ascertained that the door was merely an ordinary wooden pane. He tugged at the handle. Nothing happened. It was then that he noticed the keyhole, an oversight he bristled at upon its discovery. Having no key for entrance, Javert took out his cudgel and rammed it against the door. Was he trying to break the entrance or knock? He did not know. He was using too little force to accomplish the former, and being quite certain that no one was actually inside the box, felt ridiculous at entertaining the notion of the latter.

“ _Merde_ ,” he cursed through gritted teeth, after several minutes of failed battering with increased force. “Open the door! _I_ am the police. If this box is labeled for the police, then I have every right to enter!”

Just when Javert drew back his cudgel to prepare another blow—he didn’t fully comprehend it until it happened—the door to the box fell open. It gave a sharp creak, as if announcing the arrival of a guest that it had finally deemed worthy to take in.

“So someone is inside after all,” Javert muttered. The door had opened wide enough for him to slip in, but not enough to catch a glimpse of what was inside. He tightened his grip on his cudgel, knowing full well that he may need to defend himself as soon as he crossed the threshold. He listened, but there was no sound. He forced himself to apply logic to the situation a final time: was this a trap he was willingly walking into? Should he arrange for support, or report the entire matter to the Prefecture? Yet his curiosity—damned curiosity!—kept his feet planted firmly in place, refusing to move unless they were to take steps forward. With a sigh that would have sounded like a growl to anyone who heard, Javert readied his weapon and walked inside.

In the more than forty years of his life, Javert could count the times he had been surprised. There was this sentiment commonly held as surprise but that Javert knew it to be instinct. When things did not appear as they should be, it usually gave way to clues, which, upon thorough investigation, would uncover crimes and lead to arrests. That sentiment would not count as surprise. To Javert, surprise was a weakness, a lapse in mental discipline that allowed the unexpected to gain purchase over reason, logic, and self-control.

At the present moment, there was no reason, logic, or self-control that Javert could speak of. When he walked through the wooden door, he was greeted not by a claustrophobic interior, but an entire world—so much bigger on the inside—in which nothing looked familiar. Javert heard the sound of a fallen wooden stick to the floor but did not know what had caused it. He did not care. He looked up, down, across, swept his eyes around this circular room, and then rushed outside.

The box hadn’t changed. He encircled it twice, then one more time in the other direction, easily looping the entire four sides within seconds. He touched each side. No, this wasn’t any trick of the eye. The exterior walls were solid, each made of wood, and perfectly enclosed. He tested each side and back wall with a push (where had his cudgel gone?). None yielded under his touch. Amazed, Javert reentered the—box? It now seemed wrong to label it as if it were a mere object—picked up the fallen cudgel that he sighted on the floor, and with determined steps, walked further in.

The… _place_ seemed to welcome him, illuminating the area with light even though he could not locate any source of fire. There was a low hum in the background, steady as a river flowing downstream, lyrical as a siren’s song. He walked a full loop around what appeared to be the control station at the center, noting the many buttons and handles that decorated each side of the hexagon. A curious glow emanated from a central, tube-like pillar, and when he followed the tube and looked up, he was greeted by three layers of concentric cylinders with sides marked with various circle designs. He saw stairs leading up to other areas of the place, but the dimmed light over the staircase seemed to indicate to Javert that he was permitted only in the present area. He was allowed to go down, however, and descended to the belly of the box to find a matrix of tubing and pipes, so numerous that Javert returned his cudgel to under his arm and plunged his hands into his pockets, lest he accidentally touched any of the unknown tendrils.

How long did he spend inside this new discovery, he did not know. When he exited, he noted that the sun had sailed past its noontime position. With a final glance into the box, Javert nodded (to whom? Perhaps there was someone above the stairs who allowed him entry), turned sharply, and set to return to the constabulary.

He heard the same creak of the door behind him, followed by a click that signaled the box had once again been shut. Soon, there was no other sound but the clipped echoes of his boot heels hitting upon the pavement.

-

“How can there be nothing going wrong in this town? No monsters, no world-ending disasters, no unexplainable mysteries that span across all of time and space. This place is so… _normal_!”

“Normal is good, isn’t it?” Clara countered, bringing their linked arms closer as she rested her head lightly on the Doctor’s upper arm. She loved it when the Doctor was in one of his shoutier modes. There had been fewer moments like this lately, after their visit to Tranzalore. Clara had been wondering who the old man he met inside the Doctor’s time stream really was. A buried away regeneration of the Doctor who wasn’t really the Doctor, that she knew. But who was he, and what had he done? Glancing up at _her_ Doctor and seeing the tense set of his jaw even as he was delighted in exploring this quaint French town, Clara knew that despite the claim, the Doctor hadn’t truly done away with his disowned self.

“Normal is _boring_.” As far as whinging went, this one was rather pitch perfect.

Clara, for once, didn’t mind the lack of apocalyptic disasters. She realized they hadn’t really had the time to be undistracted and talk. Sometimes not even a time machine could convince the Doctor that it wasn’t necessary to run around during every single moment of his days. She needed to figure out life, and she couldn’t do that without bringing the Doctor into the conversation. He had become such a huge part of her.

In a few weeks’ time, she would be starting her new job as a teacher. Coal Hill School in Shoreditch, near London. Clara was surprised how readily she was offered the position. She supposed this was because, bypassing the Headmaster, the Chairman of the Governors insisted on her hire. Chairman Ian Chesterton wore that grandfatherly smile with a faraway look in his eyes, assuring her that since first-year teaching would be hard, he would always understand if she needed to take unplanned leaves. Clara couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but the Chairman seemed to be implying something more than just a sick leave here and there. It was as if he knew that, despite Clara’s best efforts at confining the Doctor to a set time in her schedule, there would be times when miscalculation of coordinates would inconvenience her in more ways than landing in Montreuil-sur-Mer, 150 miles from Paris and forty years too early.

It was as if the Chairman knew about the Doctor. Clara blinked that thought away. Not possible. There were plenty of men with the surname Chesterton in her time, and Ian was also a rather common given name. Her memories of spotting the First Doctor’s companions were hazy, and that was so long ago. Could that be the same Ian who traveled with the Doctor, with Barbara and Susan?

“Look, a café!” The Doctor’s enthusiastic voice drew her out of her thoughts. “Can’t be in France without being in a café. Or coffee taverns, I think the people here would call it. Same difference. Do you know, Clara, that coffee beans were first introduced to the human race a thousand years ago by a species called the C’olfeens? They crashed landed in eastern Africa and burned their coffee beans to ward off their bodies’ reactions against the sun’s radiation. But the Ethiopians became attracted to the coffee smell and traded their livestock for the beans. The C’olfeens then genetically reengineered the sheep and cows to have the ability to fly. Legend has it that the animals hauled their ship as far as the edge of the Milky Way, where the C’olfeens then slowly drifted back into their galaxy.”

“Really? Fascinating.” After traveling with the Doctor, nothing seemed absurd anymore. “Animals dragging a spaceship. Is that where the idea of Santa came from?”

“No, no, no. Wrong time, and wrong legend. Santa came from a planet called the North Pole. Everybody knows that.”

Clara very much doubted it. But they were now too near a crowd of people to continue this particular conversation. And besides, she was getting rather hungry. “You do have money this time, do you, Doctor? I don’t want a repeat of our last restaurant adventure. And I especially do not want to find out what debtors’ prisons are like in 19th century France.”

“Not to worry. Here –” He dug out a gold coin that Clara recalled as one of many given to them by the Emperor Porridge. She smiled at the memory, of being offered the opportunity to rule the galaxy as Mrs. Emperor. The Doctor had better not spend all of the imperial coins. She needed something to remember Porridge by.

“– is a coin made of solid gold, Monsieur.” The Doctor placed the coin into the palm of the _maitre d’hôtel_ , whose initial look of disdain disappeared rather quickly as soon as he weighed the heavy coin in his hand.  “A table for two please!”

They were seated right away.

-

While Inspector Javert was trying to make sense of one of the strangest discoveries of his life, the day was progressing as usual at the mairie. Father Madeleine, whom everyone in the city honored as Monsieur le Maire, had just finished a morning meeting with trade representatives from Berlin, which resulted in a large order to be shipped out within the next two weeks. Madeleine would need to hire additional workers to staff his factory, a need he was only too happy to fill. He smiled at the thought of extending new work opportunities to the poor and unemployed at Montreuil-sur-Mer.

Precisely at noon, someone knocked on his door. “Enter,” said Madeleine. “Ah, officer, what brings you here?”

The young man who entered, a _gendarme_ who joined the ranks only a year ago, bowed his head in greeting. “Monsieur le Maire, please forgive me for coming here unannounced. I am here to inform Monsieur that several of my colleagues have noticed two strange visitors, a man and a woman, in the city today. They were first seen about two hours ago and appear to be travelers. They are dressed in unusual clothing and –” He paused, searching for the right words to continue. “They seem to disregard the laws of propriety when relating to each other.”

Madeleine placed a piece of paper he had signed onto a pile of other signed documents. “So they are visitors, guests to our city?” he asked, his voice mild. “If they do not cause trouble or break the law, I don’t see why they should be placed under scrutiny.”

The officer bowed. “Yes, Monsieur. However, this pair seems to be… inciting trouble.” At Madeleine’s questioning glance, he elaborated, “Earlier, the man pointed what appeared to be a weapon at an older lady, claiming that she was a, ah, a _zygon_. This took place an hour ago at the tavern, which caused much disruption when the visitors then decided to chase after another patron, also screaming _zygon_ as they pursued the poor man.

“But there is no cause for alarm, Monsieur,” the officer quickly reassured. “We found the patron afterwards and he was not injured. If, ah, that is, _when_ Inspector Javert returns later today, I’m sure he will give us further instructions should we need to keep closer eyes on them.”

Madeleine frowned. Javert was not someone who would go on an assignment without first informing his colleagues of his whereabouts. But to the young officer, Madeleine nodded in thanks. “Thank you for the update, officer. I am sure our visitors harbor no ill intent despite their strange behaviors. Do update me should the Inspector decide to take any actions.”

The officer gave another bow. “Monsieur,” he said in a tone that belied pride at being personally thanked by the esteemed Father Madeleine.

Madeleine waited until the officer left before returning his thoughts to Inspector Javert. Since his arrival at Montreuil-sur-Mer three months ago, Madeleine had crossed paths with him outside of meetings for weekly update precisely three times. One, on the first day of Javert’s arrival, when he presented himself to the Mayor. The inspector had honored him with the utmost respect, but by the end of their meeting, Madeleine had felt as if he had been thoroughly assessed and found wanting by eyes that stayed on him for a bit too long. Two, when he was giving alms to the city’s poor and crossed paths with the inspector, who was patrolling the area. Javert had acknowledged him with a subordinate’s greeting to his superior, but visible beneath the veiled gesture were furrowed brows and pressed lips raised against his nose with disdain. He appeared very much like he was directing every bit of energy to suppress the animal in him to pounce on its prey, in order for Javert the Man to render honor to authority where honor was due. The third and last time took place in the hospital. Madeleine was checking in on the coalescence of a patient when Javert appeared, demanding to arrest the same man for theft. It was Sister Simplicity’s opinion that the patient would not recover if taken out of the hospital. And so Madeleine pulled rank, ordering the inspector to leave and come take the man at a later date. Javert had curled his lips at him for that. _I should have known, Monsieur_ le Maire _, that theft is but a forgivable foible in your eyes._ At that moment, Madeleine swore Javert was speaking not to him, but to Jean Valjean.

Of course he knew who Javert was. But he did not allow himself to admit it, for doing so would increase the likelihood of slipping up. It was better for Madeleine to live as if he had no past, seeing to it that the galley convict once known to Javert as 24601 would be buried as carefully as Madeleine sought to hide the slight limp in his gait or the occasional word laced with regional accent of the south. He had made a good name for himself at Montreuil-sur-Mer these past five years, or rather, he had sought to perform good for the glory of God. His soul was set on paradise. He had no desire to descend back into Hell.


	2. In which Inspector Javert was being Very Good at his job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same day, two hours later. Inspector Javert investigates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAMF!Javert is fast becoming my kink. I enjoyed getting into his head to figure out how that brilliant mind works. I hope you'll like it too.

Javert spent the rest of the day at his desk, so unusual a move that no fewer than five _gendarmes_ approached him to inquire of everything ranging from his health to whether he had had a restful evening the night prior. He humored them with what answers that surfaced to his mind, leaving them to form collective speculations amongst themselves regarding the current state of his sanity.

He had gathered copious information about the ship—for that was what it was built to be—according to a plaque that he located under the control station:

_"TARDIS_ __  
_TIME AND RELATIVE DIMENSION IN SPACE_  
  
 _BUILD SITE: GALLIFREY BLACKHOLE SHIPYARD_  
  
 _TYPE 40 BUILD DATE: 1963_  
  
 _AUTHORISED FOR USE BY QUALIFIED TIME LORDS ONLY_  
 _BY THE SHADOW PROCLAMATION_  
  
 _MISUSE OR THEFT OF ANY TARDIS_  
 _WILL RESULT IN EXTREME PENALTIES AND POSSIBLE EXILE"_

 

Several conclusions could be drawn from the label. First, as he had already come to accept, this was a ship, or a related means of transport that was constructed at a shipyard. Second, it was called the TARDIS. The origin of the name was easy enough to find, though the words did not make sense to him. Third, a TARDIS was not a new concept. There had been at least 39 models constructed prior to the one he found. Fourth, the TARDIS was intended to be piloted only by an unfamiliar rank of nobility, the Time Lords. Fifth, this rank of nobility existed under the authority of a larger body of governance that called itself the Shadow Proclamation. Sixth, both the Shadow Proclamation and the Time Lords had discovered the means of producing light without the use of fire, as was demonstrated to Javert inside the ship, a feat that belied astonishing technological advancement. Seventh, as Javert had already suspected, a TARDIS could fall into misuse. The one he found, he was convinced, had fallen into such a fate—he could think of no other reason why the ship would be disguised as the property of the police. Eighth, the date of the plaque was wrong, thus rendering none of the other information inscribed on the plaque believable as absolute truth.

That is, unless he allowed himself to admit the possibility of another, more advanced civilization on earth, one that could visit the past from the future. He immediately quelled the thought. That was impossible. He also pointed out to himself that earth was no longer full of uncharted mysteries, thanks to explorers and mappers in the past three centuries. Reaching the Americas was the last great discovery; what new world was still out there awaiting mankind to find?

Yet another possibility was that the police box was a hoax. It was stylistically inconsistent. The writing on the plaque was clearly French (or so he believed, for there were moments when he would turn his eyes away, only to see the shapes of the letters morph until he refocused his attention to find that the words were indeed inscribed in his native tongue). The exterior, very English. The craftsmanship was by all account crude, a simple wooden box that, were this ship thrown into the sea, the water would sink it in mere minutes.

Yet what was inside the TARDIS resembled nothing like a hoax. He had walked many times deeper into the ship than what outward appearance would permit. And while the mechanics of the ship were cold and impersonal, when he grasped for words to describe the low hum and glowing center column of the ship, he was not satisfied with labeling the former soothing (it was much more than that) or that the latter rendered the ship almost… alive.

All alternate possibilities faltered further under scrutiny, leaving Javert with but one option: that the TARDIS, and the reality whence it came, were real.

He resumed staring at the string of incomprehensible words he reproduced from memory onto paper. _Time and Relative Dimension In Space_. “Space,” he muttered to himself. “Can this be a civilization that inhabits the skies?”

Shaking his head, he admitted he could investigate the matter of the TARDIS no further. He must now turn his attention to the incident of the two visitors to Montreuil-sur-Mer, the whereabouts of which were immediately reported to Javert as soon as he set foot inside the constabulary. They were clad in strange clothes, he was told, held strange weapons, possessed great wealth, used strange words, and believed in the existence of strange creatures. Javert’s first words had been to berate his subordinates for a lack of astute observation or intelligence, or both, to have classified everything as strange. But what better words could Javert use to describe his encounter with the TARDIS, if not also strange? He had no doubt that everything out of the ordinary today was interrelated, and that the strangers not only piloted the TARDIS here, but were responsible for stealing it from the Time Lords.

A ship could not speak. He would need to interrogate the two visitors if he wanted to learn more. Hastening to finish his paperwork, Javert scribbled one final note in his file: _It is my conclusion that the TARDIS, being foreign in nature, must not be permitted to depart the premise of Montreuil-sur-Mer until I am thoroughly shown the mechanism of its operations and can ascertain that it is of no danger to the city or to France._ With a flourish, he signed his name at the bottom of the page and closed the file.

Putting on his greatcoat and adjusting his cravat so he could cover his chin, Javert swore into his clothing as he made his way to the mairie. Only _Père Madeleine_ would be reckless enough to invite two potentially dangerous criminals to visit his place.

-

“And as he and his granddaughter were preparing to leave the Conciergerie, guess who turned up as a prisoner? Robespierre! This man, at the height of power just hours ago, was now a prisoner with a bloody chin! If I— _he_ —hadn’t seen it himself, he would never have believed it…”

Javert, his head already pounding from the increasing volume of the inane chatter as he approached Madeleine’s office, grimaced when he opened the door to the image of a man _standing_ on a chair. The man looked no older than thirty, possessed boundless energy, and actually appeared less strange than his subordinates had led him to believe. Brown tweed coat, black trousers and shoes, a crisp shirt, and a bow tie. While he resembled nothing like a _bourgeois_ , this stranger was presentable, and was thus, Javert was convinced, an even more dangerous man than a poorly dressed thief who looked the part of his guilt.

“Oh hello there! I was just telling Mr. Mayor here of my great-uncle’s adventures in Paris during 1794.” The man hopped off the chair, walked up to Javert and extended a hand. Javert did not take it. The man did not appear to be offended. “I’m the Doctor. And this is Clara, my friend. You must be the police inspector. Very nice to meet you.”

Javert slammed the door behind him and walked straight to Madeleine, ignoring the Doctor and Clara as if they were obligatory decorations in the room. A quick glance at them had already shown Javert all he needed to know: these two were here for no other reason than to employ some scheme or deception. He knew the Doctor’s type. Silver tongued and feigned sincerity, an angelic exterior concealing the scoundrel inside.

“Monsieur le Maire, if I may have a word with you in private.”

“Good day, Inspector Javert.” Madeleine smiled indulgently at him, as if excusing him for the rude behavior of interrupting the Doctor’s tale. By this look alone, Javert knew his request would not be granted. “As you can see, I am entertaining our guests here. They are good and honest people. You may say what you have on your mind in present company.”

“ _Monsieur!_ I must insist that you cease this… this unusual behavior at once. Please,” he added, which, coming from Javert, was nothing short of a plea.

Before Madeleine could reply, the Doctor spoke up behind him. “Mr. Mayor, you are a busy man and your inspector needs you. I think we should be going. Thank you for your hospitality. Clara and I will see ourselves out.”

Javert turned and, with the ease of having done it thousands of times, fastened his grip on the Doctor’s arm like a vise. “Or maybe not,” the Doctor stammered, while the girl behind him shouted for Javert to let him loose.

“Perhaps Monsieur and Mademoiselle would like to be my guests at the constabulary,” he purred. He ignored Madeleine calling his name, asking him to stop. While it was his principle to never arrest anyone until he or she had committed a crime, Javert was sure that these two were already criminals by way of a stolen police ship.

His mind was quick to determine what needed to be done. He must not keep them imprisoned together. The Doctor seemed to possess more knowledge than the girl, so he would interrogate him first and use Clara as a means to either corroborate the facts or to expose the Doctor’s lies. Judging by the way the girl was looking at the Doctor, she clearly cared for him. Javert settled on a third role for her—hostage, demanding the Doctor’s honesty as ransom in exchange for her safety.

The Doctor, fool that he was, took Javert’s words as a mere suggestion. “Well, no… no, thank you. We were actually planning to explore some other parts of the city, not the police station. Look, if this is about the unfortunate scene I caused at the café, it was all a misunderstanding. I can pay back the owner double. I have money! Isn’t this great, Clara? I never get to say this –”

Javert bristled. “I don’t take bribes.” But on second thought, he would not be opposed to confiscating what currency the Doctor had on hand as further evidence to add to his file. “Hand over your money and I will deliver it to the tavern owner after it has been processed as evidence. But you and your friend are coming with me.”

“Javert,” Madeleine tried again, his voice louder and sterner this time. “Release the Doctor. They have done nothing to warrant your actions.”

 _Because you do not consider theft a wrong!_ —he wanted to say, but knew this was neither the time nor place for his other, ongoing investigation regarding the true identity of one Father Madeleine. This other investigation in question required far more patience. Javert was willing to wait and, in the meantime, willing to defer to Madeleine and play his part. For now, he would win the Mayor over with evidence and logic. He would not raise his voice.

“On the contrary, Monsieur. I have reason to believe that since these two set foot on Montreuil-sur-Mer this morning, they have not uttered a word of truth. You see –”

“I meant it when I said I was hungry,” the idiot of a Doctor protested.

“Quiet!” Javert barked. Without lessening his grip, he turned to Madeleine, noting the quiet fury that was now brewing on the Mayor’s face. Rather than feeling alarmed, Javert found himself intrigued. He had not been on duty at Montreuir-sur-Mer long enough to encounter Madeleine’s rage. He had heard no account whatsoever of Father Madeleine acting or speaking out of anger. By the lack of evidence alone, he should have deemed the Mayor incapable of rage. But if his suspicions were correct, then there _was_ a man whom Madeleine strongly reminded him of, a condemned soul steeped in hatred… Javert was sure the wolf would break free from the sheep skin of _Père Madeleine_ if given the right encouragement.

But to goad Madeleine further today may result in being forced to relinquish his prisoners, a risk Javert was not willing to take.

“Monsieur le Maire, I have proof that these two criminals stole a police ship, which they used to travel here. I have investigated the matter thoroughly and have completed a report which I will furnish to you later today. The ship is foreign in nature, and from what I can ascertain, does not travel by sea. It is a land…” Here, Javert ventured to reveal what did not conform to logic but what he believed to be the most sensible conjecture based on all his observations. “Or even an air… ship. This vehicle does _not_ belong to them. It was decreed to be operated only by authorized persons of nobility. They are thieves. I am certain they stole it.”

When Madeleine made no effort to respond, Javert pressed on: “I saw it, the stolen ship, abandoned in the alleyway where the prostitutes occupy at night. You must not be fooled by its appearance, Monsieur, for the ship is much larger than it seems. It is built with advanced and precise artistry and must not fall into the hands of common criminals. The makers of the ship claim that it can traverse time, dimension, and space. While I can hardly subscribe to this as nothing other than foolishness, the fact remains that this ship may be immensely powerful. Unless we bring these two to justice for robbing the Time Lords of such a cargo—and I acknowledge, Monsieur, that what I am saying sounds like nonsense even to myself—but please consider: Montreuil-sur-Mer may, by association of guilt, fall under the mysterious people’s wrath and be in danger!”

Javert chanced a glance at Madeleine and, to his astonishment, the Mayor was… amused. Livid, he prepared to launch into yet another diatribe when Madeleine held up a hand and pointed toward somewhere behind Javert.

The Doctor was wearing a grin that stretched from ear to ear. Having at some point freed his arm from Javert’s grip (when did it happen?), the Doctor brought his hands together into a sound round of applause.

“Bravo, bravo! Mr. Mayor, never fire your inspector. He is surly and grumpy but he’s excellent. So, Inspector Javert, I see that you have found my TARDIS. Time and Relative Dimension In _Space_. It is not an air ship as you called it, but a spaceship. I won’t go into all the details of how I acquired it, but the TARDIS is, for all intents and purposes, mine.

“Clara and I, we are time travelers. I am a Time Lord, and she is the Impossible Girl who has lived lives all across time and space. If you would forgive me, Mr. Mayor, the only lie I told today was that my _great-uncle_ had met Robespierre in 1794. No, that was me, and Clara can confirm this because she was there too, although I hadn’t realized it at the time. But I digress.

“Now, you may wonder why we’re here. We were going to Paris to visit Monet—you don’t need to know who this is, he’s not important yet—but my timing and location were, shall we say, a tiny bit off. Clara and I found ourselves at Montreuil-sur-Mer and we thought, why not, let’s look around. So you see, we’re travelers and we mean absolutely no harm. I’m sure after a nice supper tonight, Clara and I will be out of your city and you will never need to worry about us again.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Javert struggled to take in the absurdity of it all. The line between reality and fantasy seemed to blur, as his instinct to disregard the Doctor’s words was met with fierce resistance coming from his vocational pride, which argued that none of what he had just heard contradicted with the conclusions he had himself already drawn. It was, in truth, no more difficult to believe the stranger’s tale than to scoff at it.

It started as a soft chuckle, but as it grew in warmth and delight, the rich, sonorous sound of Monsieur Madeleine’s laughter filled the room. He looked like a child who had discovered his favorite toy had sprung to life. If he harbored any doubt at all, it was but a sentiment stemming from the fear that believing would render his objects lifeless again. Javert envied the ease with which Madeleine trusted the strangers. If he hadn’t been granted entrance into the TARDIS earlier today, the Doctor could speak ten times more in length and volume, and he still would not have believed a word to be true.

He suddenly remembered the case summary he had composed. The matter was not yet finished. “I cannot contradict you, Doctor, for what I found from my investigation does indeed support your claims. But the question remains: Are you the rightful owner of the TARDIS? You claim to be a Time Lord, and I admit I can come up with nothing to prove you false. Thus I must resort to this—show me, Doctor, of the nature and operation of your spaceship, and I will accept that as demonstration of your rightful ownership of the TARDIS. My jurisdiction does not extend to your race or territory, but I will see to it that, whether intentional or not, you and your ship pose no danger to this city.”

Just when he thought the Doctor could not look any more delighted, his entire face glowed with the excitement of a young child.

“But of course! Well, gentlemen, all of time and space. Where would you like to go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the plaque inside the TARDIS has been present for at least the past two incarnation of the TARDIS interior and is a licensed merchandise by the BBC. So it's real in the Doctor Who universe *g*
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, please leave a comment and/or kudos. I hope to post the next chapter soon.


	3. Madeleine and Javert, in the TARDIS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madeleine is given a grand tour of the TARDIS, while Javert learns all he can about how it functions.

And thus the Mayor and Inspector found themselves hurried into the Doctor and Clara’s world, a reality so strange that, had not the Doctor possessed a ready scientific explanation for every phenomenon heretofore unbeknownst to Javert and Madeleine, the former would have accused the Doctor of witchcraft, and the latter would have believed himself a witness to heavenly visions.

At Javert’s insistence to be shown how a TARDIS functioned so that he may complete his case file, the Doctor left the task of playing host to Clara, who was accompanying an awestruck Madeleine on whose face displayed both wonder and incomprehension in equal measures. They ascended the stairs that led them further into the TARDIS, passing first a kitchen, then an aquatic reservoir (which Clara called a “pool”), an observatory, a game room, untold lengths of corridors, and finally, they arrived at the library.

The library, it must be emphasized, was quite a sight to behold. As if it were possible for any room to be larger than the main console room, this library contained shelves upon shelves of books, at least six stories high of flooring and columns made from solid marble, which together stretched higher than any cathedral’s sanctuary and would topple all the great halls of royal palaces. Dim lights illuminated the room, casting a warm glow that was at once bright enough for reading, yet gentle enough to invite silence. At the ceiling was a large window, looking out to space and welcoming celestial lights to enter the room—a vision rendered more bizarre as Madeleine was quite certain that they were still in Montreuil-sur-Mer and that it was not yet supper time. Nonetheless, Madeleine was delighted to be in the company of so many books. There was a stillness about the library, a tranquility that quieted the mind and freed the soul.

“This is one of my favorite rooms,” Clara said, in a hushed tone befitting of the library’s solemnity. “I don’t come here as often as I’d like, we’re always so busy traveling. But it’s a great place to catch a moment of peace.”

“It would seem so,” Madeleine agreed. He was thoughtful for a moment. “Does the TARDIS have a sanctuary, a church?”

“I don’t remember seeing one, no. But maybe I just haven’t found it yet. At any rate, I’m sure the TARDIS can make you one.” At Madeleine’s raised brows, Clara glanced up at the library, as if inviting the spaceship to join their conversation. “She’s not just a ship, the TARDIS. She’s alive. The Doctor and the TARDIS, oldest traveling mates in the history of the universe. Going back hundreds of years and I’m sure many hundreds more to come.”

Even a casual observer would be able to make out the confusion on Madeleine’s face. To him, the Doctor was but a youth. He was willing to accept that Time Lords did not age, yet this theory was not consistent with the Doctor’s own tale of visiting Paris in 1794 when, having a granddaughter in tow, would at least require him to look the part. He realized there were many things he didn’t know about this enigmatic traveler.

“The Doctor, what is his name?”

Clara laughed. “You aren’t the first to ask.” At this, she fell silent. She drew his gaze to one of the alcoves on the first level of the library. There, less than fifty yards from where they were standing, was a large volume sat atop a pedestal, a book with the title, _The History of the Time War_. It appeared ancient but well preserved, leather-bound with reinforced corners on the cover where it opened. The book was large, both in size and thickness, doubtless containing millennia of information. They walked up to the tome. In the nearness, Madeleine noticed that the book did not contain an author’s name.

“It’s in here, the Doctor’s real name,” Clara said. “The chronicle of the Time War, about his people. I read it once, but then I forgot.”

The book seemed to whisper to its observers, calling to them to turn the page. Madeleine pondered his options. He could open the tome, and Clara would not stop him. Yet doing so would violate the Doctor’s privacy, as the Time Lord had clearly not wished for his name to be known. He could turn away, following his conscience, which was telling him that it was improper to intrude. He felt no overwhelming desire to know the Doctor’s name. He, of all people, should know the need for a man to bury the secrets of one’s past.

“In this book, was the Doctor a different man?”

Clara shook her head. “No, he was the Doctor, is the Doctor, and will always be the Doctor. That’s how he thinks of himself, even in his dreams. He chose the name a long time ago. It’s like an act of promise. And whatever that promise is, I know he’s kept it over and over again.” She reached out a hand to caress the book’s cover, as if bidding it goodbye. “His real name… it doesn’t matter.”

Madeleine found it no coincidence that, of all the names he could have chosen, the Time Lord chose to be known as a doctor. Whatever his dark past (for who would want to turn from a good and moral past?), the Doctor, by naming himself, had shut its door. Living as a doctor and doing what a doctor would do—to heal and protect—had made him into the embodiment of his chosen name today, so much so that the connotation of his original name had ceased to matter. The universe, despite knowing the Doctor had a true identity, no longer cared. It had chosen to embrace him as the Doctor, leaving his secret to yellow within pages of a book.

Madeline felt a twinge of envy that soured the pit of his stomach. He, too, longed for this same escape from the past. The irony of their parallel narratives, both having dual identities, was not lost to him. And yet how far had the Doctor come where Madeleine had fallen short! If his name were inscribed in a book, linking Jean Valjean to Madeleine, then he knew of at least one inspector who would seize the book at first opportunity and condemn both the convict and the mayor to the galleys.

Madeleine was so entrenched in his thoughts that he did not notice comprehension dawning on Clara’s face, as she pieced together the subject at hand with the realization that she also had not yet been introduced to Madeleine apart from his titles as _Père_ and Mayor.

“You too,” she said. “You are more than Father Madeleine.”

He shook his head. “You are too kind, Mademoiselle.”

Madeleine had, in his years of devoting his life to God, acquired a wisdom that could only come about through the concurrent development of humility. For not only did he not take Clara’s statement as an accusation, which less godly men would misconstrue out of the instinctive need to defend oneself, but he had also found embedded in her words a praise of which he felt was undeserving, having his eyes opened to see how God perceived him: a wretched sinner saved by grace. “I am _less_ than Father Madeleine. I do not—cannot—live up to the expectations placed on me as Monsieur le Maire.

“But you are correct. I have, at one point in my life, been someone other than Father Madeleine. My erstwhile self… he is hidden in the shadows. If I were honest, I would confess that I wanted him dead. That man was hateful, pitiless, selfish, an utter wretch. He had done terrible things.”

The reader may wonder why Madeleine, a private man by all accounts, suddenly felt so free to reveal his past to Clara. If we were to ask him at this very moment, doubtless even he himself would not know why. At this we may conjecture that he believed to have finally found someone, compassionate and yet uninvolved in his world, upon whom he deemed it safe to unburden his past. In truth, Madeleine had longed to openly confess his duplicity—the daily offense of posing as Madeleine, as someone far better—to his priest. Knowing that he could not, his confession had heretofore been uttered only in prayer to Monseigneur Bienvenu the Bishop of Digne, who, though during his life had known Jean Valjean, he had not come to know Father Madeleine. Thus Madeleine found himself in the pitiful position of desiring God’s pardon and yet was left helpless to attain it.

We should not be surprised, then, that when Clara pried open his inner storehouse but a sliver, what ensued was the rupture of the entire floodgate. Madeleine’s tortured soul jumped at the opportunity to make Clara his confessor, confidante, jury and judge.

“Now, I atone daily by doing good. But have you tried to lessen the marks of a sin by covering it with virtuous deeds? It doesn’t work! The old sin is still there, no matter how much new good has been piled on. My past haunts me. My guilt of –” And here we can know that the discretion of Madeleine the Mayor was still with him, for he held back confessing explicitly his wrong of breaking parole. “– running away can never be paid for by Madeleine. Judgment must be faced and paid for by _him_ … by me, my past self.

“I am hiding, every moment, and even my best deeds are tainted. In my daily prayers, I ask God to grant me strength to serve others in love. But I do not! Others perceive it as such, which adds to my transgression. If _Père Madeleine_ is seen giving alms to the poor, then his heart must be pure. If he should take pity on a street urchin, it is because he has always lived an upright life and does not know the wretchedness of the underclass. If he cares for his workers, he is being equitable. If he is being equitable, it is because he is so blameless that he can desire the justice of God without fear of being judged himself. Mademoiselle, these are all false. I… I am sincere in my acts of charity, yes. But even in my sincerity my life is never beyond reproach.”

Madeleine continued, his voice now barely above a whisper. “You have met Inspector Javert. If there ever is an upright man living in utter honesty, it would be he. The inspector has on many occasions made known to me that he abhors sinners cloaked in angels’ disguise, more than a wretch that lets his deplorable estate known. He did not realize that every word he spoke had condemned me. For that is who I am. An imposter. That is who I am.”

Having exhausted his self-incrimination, Madeleine bowed his head, awaiting verdict.

Clara allowed the silence to fill the minutes, the kind commiseration of Job’s friends before they ruined the comfort with their words. It was not advice that Madeleine sought. And what he needed, absolution, Clara could not give him.

So she told a story.

“When the Doctor took the TARDIS and left his planet, he too was running away. He didn’t agree with his people. The other Time Lords favored noninterference. But the Doctor, he thinks that if people are in danger, he should be able to help and save lives. So he visited planet after planet, exploring the universe on his own, always knowing that he was on the run.

“But after a while, the Doctor realized he wasn’t running away anymore. He was running _to_ things, exploring the distant stars, saving people, stopping galaxies from falling into evil. Sometimes he’s forced to do terrible things, but he always sacrifices himself to make things right again. Out among the stars, billions of people are still living because the Doctor had stopped to help.”

The slightest of pause, Clara searching for and meeting Madeleine’s gaze. “You’re like that, Mr. Madeleine. You make people better, make your city better. When the Doctor and I walked around this morning, we couldn’t find anything wrong—no monsters, no invaders trying to bribe corrupt officials into power, no deplorable conditions that aliens like to take advantage of for their own experiments. All thanks to you.

“You may have started out running away from terrible things. But who is it to say that you aren’t now running toward good things? Montreuil-sur-Mer needs Madeleine.” Clara’s tone was emphatic. A voice ten times the volume would not be able to convey more certainty than her hushed words. “You _are_ Madeleine. That’s all the world needs to know.”

I shall not bore the reader with details, for Madeleine and Clara took the same path back to the console room as their journey in. If anyone were to remark that Madeleine seemed to hold his head higher, his face more relaxed, and his gait surer, it would be as easy to claim it a trick of the eye than to believe the wretched soul had finally made peace with his existence as Monsieur Madeleine.

-

It is now only fair to also recount Inspector Javert’s first moments in the TARDIS as guest and soon-to-be time traveler. Having already explored the console room once, he did not wear the same enthralled mien as Madeleine, but this is not to say he wasn’t equally fascinated with the ship when the Doctor began to detail the functions of each knob, handle, button, switch, dial, keypad, etc. on the main console.

“And this –“ the Doctor said as he wiggled a stick along a zigzagged path. “– stabilizes the pressure field around the TARDIS. It’s like a mini shield, so if the TARDIS door opens in midflight, we won’t all fall out.”

Javert, for his part, still considered the Doctor as intolerable as an overexcited puppy. Could the man stop talking for longer than his need to suck in air, and that only in preparation for launching yet another grand oration? At the moment, he was at least glad that the subject matter held his interest, for even if he ignored nine words out of ten, Javert was able to learn the functions of the TARDIS’s controls. The foreign logic of extraterrestrial technology was slowly making sense to him, and a coherent picture now seemed to emerge from taking in a macro view of how each unit of the control panels worked together. Javert was pleased. He could now employ his new vocabulary with ease.

The TARDIS console, being circular in nature, had no defined start or end point to go by. So when Javert noticed the Doctor was about to launch into describing the nature of several buttons whose functions had already been introduced half an hour ago, he considered the lecture over.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Javert cut him off. “This was most fascinating.”

“You’re very welcome! Did you collect the information you need? I can repeat if you missed anything –“

“No need, Doctor. I have an excellent memory. My profession requires that I pay attention to details and retain all information.”

The Doctor's face lit up, as if he were proud of Javert’s competence on his behalf. “Ah, yes, excellent inspector Javert, I haven’t forgotten. I should call you Mr. Excellent. Now that would be a nice name, everybody would know how great you are.”

That was most… ridiculous. Javert was caught between yielding to his suspicion of the Doctor, for a man with such outward ebullience must be hiding something darker and more sinister, and utter exasperation, ready to believe anything the Doctor had to say if he could exchange this faith for a few precious moments of silence. The inspector must truly be in distress, for, against his better judgment and suppressing his most excellent instincts, he opted for the latter. “You’re very kind, Doctor. ‘Inspector Javert’ will do.”

The Doctor brought his hands together in a clap, not for the first time today, or indeed, in the past half hour. “Right, yes, Inspector Javert. I like the sound of that. Reminds me of a cartoon character who’s a cyborg detective. Anyway. Since now you practically know how to fly the TARDIS, where would you like to take us?”

Javert took time to ponder the Doctor’s offer. All of time and space. He had always been fond of the stars, thus the opportunity to visit some of the constellations he could only gaze at from afar was an alluring option. He could also traverse time…

“Tell me, Doctor, are there rules against traveling to one’s past or future?”

“You mean along your personal timeline? You _can_ , but it’s not a good idea. It’s very dangerous to interfere with yourself. Imagine if you meet your mother in the past and she falls in love with you instead of your father. Besides being extremely awkward, this also means you will have never been born.”

Javert conceded the point. Although being fond of neither of his parents, he would not consider it such a travesty if they had never met and he never born. Certainly the criminals he had apprehended over the years would be glad of his non-existence.

“What of the consequences of my actions? Suppose I want to know whether the evidences I gather will result in an arrest.”

The Doctor shook his head. “No, still too dangerous. That’s the equivalent of generating foreknowledge, creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. One wrong move and you’ll create a destiny trap. You’ll end up with a series of events predicated on the very same events for both cause and effect. Very nasty things, these destiny traps. Not even I can get us out of those. And besides –” The Doctor walked up to Javert and plopped both hands onto the inspector’s shoulders. Javert looked none too pleased at that. “Don’t you want to travel for fun?”

“ _Pardon_?”

“Fun!” At this, the Doctor twirled about, casting his eyes here and there as if the ghosts of previous fun moments were flashing before him around the TARDIS walls. If this was his idea of fun, then Javert would have none of it. “All you think about is work, about this case or that case. You’re in a time machine, Inspector. You can take a holiday without actually missing a day of work. Instead of visiting your past or future to do more work, why not go out into the stars? Visit some new planet? Do you like stars?”

“I like the dependability of the constellations.”

“Ah, so you do! Good. Javert, loosen up. I’ll take you anywhere in space you want to go. Give me a number, two numbers, ten numbers! I’ll plug them in as coordinates.”

Javert buried his sense of disappointment, for his original intention was to request the Doctor to either take him into the past to reveal Jean Valjean’s whereabouts before he went into hiding, or into the future to know what will have become of his investigation on Madeleine. But since the Doctor was so insistent on his taking a _holiday_ , Javert had no choice but to let the matter go and focus on selecting the most sensible criteria for a safe intergalactic trip.

Just then, Madeleine and the girl walked back into the console room. The wolf-dog inside Javert pounced: a snarl broke free of its own accord, curling his upper lips against his whiskers. If the Doctor wanted numbers… he waited until he caught Madeleine’s eyes. “How about 24601?”

Madeleine froze. Beside him, the girl had noticed his sudden paleness and started frantically to fuss over him.

“2 – 4 – 6 – 0 – 1,” the Doctor repeated, punctuating each number with a press of his finger on the keyboard. “Good choices! I need five more.”

“Oh I don’t care for anything else,” Javert said. Madeleine’s mouth was now pressed into a stern line, his eyes flashing in a defiant display that warned of future retribution. They may have stared at each other for seconds or minutes, he couldn’t tell, but when he realized the Doctor was still waiting for his response, Javert decided to release his prey for now. “Perhaps a planet? Future. With extraterrestrial life forms. Inhabitable. No undue dangers.”

The Doctor tapped on the bell on the console that went _ding_. “Right, all of the above! Ah, Clara and Madeleine, good to see you back with us. Here we go— _Geronimo_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, thoughts and comments are very welcomed.


	4. The uneventful first adventure, or, adjusting to the reality of space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagining space-time travel is one thing, experiencing it is another. Madeleine and Javert adjust to their new reality, their hosts, and to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *points to "Madeleine angsting over his faith" tag*  
> This is what started the whole fic. Madeleine's faith is such a central part of him, I find it fascinating to explore what happens if/when his worldview is challenged. Writing this as a non-Catholic, so please forgive any errors.

“Um, Doctor? You down there?”

“Nothing to worry about!”

“The TARDIS –”

“It’s nothing.”

“Exactly. Nothing. We’re not moving. We’ve stopped.”

“I’m sure I have an explanation for that.”

“Well I hope so. ‘Cause this is embarrassing. _We have guests!_ ”

“Just give me a moment. I’ll get her flying again.”

“If I have a quid every time you say that –“

“Quiet, Clara. We have guests.”

“Really? I thought you hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh you, hush. It’ll just be a few minutes.”

“I’m getting a book –”

“Oh look, a TARDIS piece! I wonder where this came from…”

“– _and_ heading to the pool. Call me when we’re moving again.”

-

The Doctor was busy repairing the ship under-deck, and the girl had gone off to find entertainment elsewhere. Under normal circumstances (present circumstances not being remotely normal notwithstanding), Javert may have felt annoyed. But here he was alone with Madeleine, not three feet from him, who was shifting his weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other.

Javert turned to the console. He activated the zigzag handle, pressed a bright red button, then walked around to the other side to type in a command on the keyboard, all with unwavering composure and precision that could pass him as someone who had performed the same routine hundreds of times. He checked the monitor and, ascertaining that the TARDIS was not in close proximity with any celestial debris, strode to the entrance and pushed the door open.

Madeleine started as if expecting disaster, and Javert allowed his amusement to tug his lips upward. “We’re protected by a force field. We will not fall out.” He added pointedly, “I believe you need some air.”

Madeleine said nothing as he walked up to the TARDIS door. His gait was unsteady. Javert could make out the limp, the drag of his right foot that told the story of a galley slave shackled too many years to the chains. He hid it well as Monsieur le Maire, his steps always steady and dignified. Javert wondered what other secrets he could uncover of Madeleine during this trip.

Madeleine was standing shoulder to shoulder with him now, gazing into the dark void. For all the stars in the universe, they gave very little light when the TARDIS was among them in space. In the far distance to the left, the sun appeared no larger than a speck. Stars that once appeared as clusters and in constellations had now lost their shapes. The TARDIS had sailed by several earlier, and if the Doctor hadn’t pointed out each star’s name, Javert would not have associated the occasional glowing orb as part of the Belt of Orion or a piece of the Canis Major. Somehow, in the randomness of space, the stars knew where they belonged. Such was the Law of nature, Javert marveled, dispensing each object in its place, never deviating to the left or the right.

“Speak your mind, Javert.”

And so the game of cat and mouse began. “I believe,” Javert said, “what I said earlier had produced an effect on you.”

“Is that so?”

“Five numbers, with no apparent relation to one another. They seem to spell a recognizable pattern to you.”

Madeleine looked contemplative, as if he were searching for words. His posture was not hurried as he waited for the words to come to him. The pause was used, as many other times when Javert stood before the mayor waiting for a response after delivering his weekly report, as an affirmation of his authority, a reminder of who should lead the dance and who should follow. “Ah yes, you dictated several numbers to the Doctor. I remember now.”

The man before him sounded too much like Madeleine yet. Self-depreciative, mild-mannered, and deflective—a consummate conversationalist who knew how to utter words without saying anything at all. Javert considered his next move.

It must be noted that Javert came to be esteemed as a prodigious inspector neither by chance nor through the ever-changing tides of men’s valuation of his worth. He was nursed on the truths of the law, raised by justice, and entered his profession with a zeal for righteousness that saw his roster of apprehended criminals grow over the years. Each arrest required thorough investigation: first the gathering of evidence, then to study the habits of his target, then setting the trap, and only when success was all but certain would he close in on his prey. Honor prevented him from premature judgment; Javert rarely presumed.

Thus he found himself in a dilemma. He had reasons to believe the man before him to be Jean Valjean. The reaction to his prison numbers was confirmation enough. Yet his other suspicions could not be proven. Perhaps Madeleine had suffered a fall as a child, a common cause for an injury like a limp. Perhaps his inquiry into a certain family in Faverolles was done on behalf of a patient in his hospital or an orphan under his care, as the good Madeleine was wont to do. And one could no more change his destiny than to refuse the face that God had given him. To look similar to another person was not a crime.

Thus Javert was unsettled at the thought of tightening a noose around someone who could yet be revealed as innocent. That would make him no better than a common thief, stealing a man’s honor and destroying his reputation. No, it was even worse. For, once gone, honor and reputation could never be fully restored. But loosen the noose a little, and the truly guilty would escape from his grasp. The wolf-dog in Javert longed to leap in for the kill. The man in him was too honor-bound to risk error.

“You wish to say nothing more, Javert?” Madeleine turned to make his escape. _The prey was getting away—no!_ “Then we are done.”

“Halt!” The cry of a police officer. The command of a prison guard.

As if by instinct, Madeleine obeyed.

With no clear understanding of his actions, save that the last shred of human restraint that moments ago still clung to its diminishing existence had now been fully surrendered to the wolf-dog, Javert set his cudgel on Madeleine’s right shoulder, a merciless weight that forced the man to turn and face his captor. Though the way he carried his body screamed of defiance, Javert could smell Madeleine’s fear.

 _Jean-le-Cric_ ’s eyes were a blazing furnace ripping holes through the countenance of M. Madeleine. Javert saw in them the depths of a convict’s hatred, the blackness of a soul that was darker than the starless void outside.

And then it was gone in a flash, the convict slipping back into hiding as the man before him becoming once again fully Madeleine. This new face wore a demeanor that was softer around the edges, and had eyes that, though losing none of their fierceness, had traded in wild ferocity for a quiet authority.

The hand of Mayor Madeleine brushed the cudgel off his shoulder.

“While I see no reason why we should keep to formalities in space,” Madeleine said, his voice as mild as if discussing the weather, though Javert did not miss the steel underneath the bland pleasantry. “I had hoped I wouldn’t need to remind you to remember your place, Inspector. You will still render all honor that’s due to me.”

This time, the finality in his voice was unmistakable. “We are done here, Javert.”

-

Madeleine could barely command his arm to close the TARDIS door, having directed all his strength to maintain his façade that was losing its opacity by the minute. He was thankful for small mercies. Javert didn’t linger—he had no reason to. He _knew_ , and could not tolerate being in the presence of a convict any more than a _bourgeois_ among the underclass in Paris’s gutters.

He leaned against the inside wall of the TARDIS and replayed the exchange between him and Javert. Before today, the inspector had been suspicious, but Monsieur le Maire had been careful, keeping his distance to avoid providing Javert with further foothold to elevate his suspicions. This had worked in Montreuil-sur-Mer, where Javert was duty-bound to obey him. But space had given Javert the freedom to go on the offensive, and Madeleine’s parting command—a desperate attempt to reassert his authority—had sounded hollow even to his own ears. He had given too much away upon hearing those treacherous numbers, he knew, rendering Madeleine a façade that both knew to be false.

But no, Madeleine was not false. He was Madeleine just as much as he was Jean Valjean the convict, and later Jean Valjean the repentant sinner whose soul the Bishop had bought for God. He was a pruner, businessman and factory owner, philanthropist, and mayor. Every one of his identities was real. That he was also a thief and liar and parole breaker did not make him any less than who he was in the eyes of the people of Montreuil-sur-Mer.

He knew who he was, both angel and beast, both light and dark. It was Javert who could not see the contradiction that was Madeleine-Jean Valjean. He had no intention of going back to Toulon, and so before him lay two options: to convince Javert in the next few days that he was a changed man, or to once again cast doubt on Javert’s convictions, drawing on Madeleine the Mayor’s authority and goodness to force the inspector to question himself. Javert was honorable to a fault. One question, one crack in his theory, and he would stay his hand… for now.

Neither option was savory. Both required pursuing the course of one and forsaking the other—reveal himself to be Jean Valjean, and there would be no turning back; become Madeleine (and only Madeleine) once and for all, and he would have to bury a true part of himself that must never be allowed to surface again.

Madeleine closed his eyes. _Lord, what should I do?_

The image of space, of an utter, dark void, overwhelmed him.

There was no answer.

-

“Ah, I see you’ve found it, the chapel,” the Doctor said with an accompanying clap of his hands. He was glad that both his guests had found ways to occupy themselves while he waited for the TARDIS to… cooperate. He couldn’t find anything amiss with the Old Girl, not even after restoring the loose part to its proper place. It was as if she just _wanted_ to stop, suspended in space, forcing her occupants to do nothing.

The Doctor twirled around, taking in the intricate ceiling and colorful glass windows that somehow made a small chapel feel grand. “Don’t think anyone has been inside for a long time. In fact, the TARDIS may have recreated this room just for you. I recall searching in vain for it back, oh I don’t know, several regenerations ago. It even looks different now from the way it used to be –” The Doctor stopped, something wasn’t right. Madeleine, sitting not five feet before him, had his head buried in his palms, his body trembling in a way that was neither from cold or fear, but as someone who had had the very core of his being shaken and unraveled, crumbling apart.

But of course…

In contrast, the serenity of the chapel felt almost obscene, too inadequate to shelter the man of faith who had set foot into the stars only to find not the face of God, nor of the Devil—for even that would have been more bearable—but _nothing_.

Nothing was perfectly acceptable to the Doctor. The closest he had come to encountering his Creator was many lives ago. Despite sympathy, he had had no qualms banishing Omega back into his antimatter realm. The Time Lords didn’t need a god. The universe was safer without one.

But humans. They had this insatiable need to attach their worship to a Higher Being. They had such need to believe that they mattered.

“In all your travels, Doctor, have you seen God?”

Had he?

He answered carefully, “I have seen wonderful displays of power that can be attributed as godlike.” A short pause as he sifted through his mind for past adventures. “I’ve seen the devil reduced to a shackled shell trapped inside a planet orbiting a black hole. I’ve seen ancient creatures stripping men and women of their identities by consuming their faith.” An incident that reminded him all too well of his inability to invoke faith of any kind, not even when faced with the crack of the universe that threatened the return of the Time Lords. “I’ve seen parasite gods burn.”

Madeleine, lifting his head toward the Doctor in that unnerving way that seemed to see past him, looked nothing like the dignified mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer that the Doctor knew him to be just hours ago. Mayor Madeleine had been delighted at the prospect of space and time travel. But Madeleine the Man of Faith posed a challenge, one that the Doctor wasn’t sure if he could conquer. If he were charged to find God among the stars, how would he even begin to tackle this impossible task?

“So none was real?” Madeleine questioned at length, having concluded that the Doctor’s drawn-out answer to his initial question was really just a _no_.

“They’re not the God you believe in, no. But they were real,” the Doctor clarified. Every one of them, feeding on the lives and powers of those who came just a bit too close, those poor victims, at once willing and unwilling. _Praise him_ , the victims of the Minotaur had said. But what he heard that day was Rita’s plea: please Doctor, close the channel, turn away so you don’t see the utter destruction of my faith. He had honored her request, and felt a sudden need to do the same with Madeleine, to offer him privacy to wrestle with his God.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Madeleine confessed, his voice pained. “Not twelve hours ago I was kneeling in my room, beneath the crucifix, making supplications to God with absolute certainty that he would listen. But now, now I see that beyond Earth there is nothing but a dark void, spanning the skies without end. If God exists, then where is he? Why would he bestow care on my world, on me—an inconsequential speck that will expire in the blink of an eye?”

The Doctor wanted to tell Madeleine how wonderful he thought humans were. How he found himself drawn to Earth over and over, met earthlings who turned into friends and companions, how he would give his lives to defend his beloved planet.

But Madeleine was not searching for a doctor; he needed a god.

“Tell me, Doctor. Who do you pray to?”

A thousand answers rose and died in his throat. Nothing seemed adequate. He had been asked this questions before, several times, by those who traveled with him as well as he to himself. And he _had_ prayed, though he wouldn’t exactly call it that, during times when he needed to draw on something beyond himself. _Susan, Barbara, Vicki, Steven..._ he had chanted to ward off the Haemovores, a species that must be repelled by faith. _Charley, C’rizz, Lucie, Tamsin, Molly…_ he had whispered, each of his companion’s names like a prayer as he brought the cup of the Sisterhood of Karn closer to his lips, drinking in the promise of continued existence. And when he was bereft of his faith, when his Ponds left him and he became nothing but a hollowed shell haunting his TARDIS on a cloud, wasn’t he just like Madeleine, deplete of hope and faith and unable to face his loss?

The Doctor, his weapon of choice disarmed by the realization that words, no matter how eloquent, would never be enough to salvage broken faith, walked up to Madeleine. He placed a hand on Madeleine’s shoulder, squeezed it in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture, then stalked as quietly as he could toward the chapel door.

-

Jean Valjean—for that was who he truly was when alone—allowed the mechanical singing of the ship to soothe him. He was being hunted again. He felt his would-be captor breathing down his neck, baring his lips before the bite. Yet when he turned to God for help, to Bishop Myriel’s God who gave him strength to turn his life around, Jean Valjean found nothing.

It was strange, though perhaps not to be unexpected, that when the soul could no longer rely on unwavering faith, it sought reassurance from material sensations. The surface of the pew bench he was sitting on was smooth, belying a product of skilled craftsmanship that had been woefully underused. The warm smell of wax from the burning candles engulfed his senses, triggering scent-memories of the times he spent at church, praying for lost souls and for God’s guidance as he sought to live the life of a better man. And if he listened closely, he could almost make out the sound of angelic hymns from the hum of the TARDIS, calling him into worship out of ritualistic habit, if not (or any longer) out of devotion.

Since he first allowed God’s grace to penetrate his soul, on that fateful day when his encounter with the Bishop of Digne showed him the world was more than cruelty and hate, Jean Valjean had tried to be good. In small measures, he may have succeeded. Montreuil-sur-Mer was by all account a bustling city, all thanks to him. He strived daily to remain humble, remembering a past that clung to him like a second set of skin just beneath his outer appearance, waiting to burst free at any moment. He gave alms, visited the sick, provided jobs to fill people’s stomachs as well as their souls. He established institutions that raised orphans, healed the sick, and educated children.

None of his good deeds, he had come to believe, would have been possible apart from the grace of God that daily sustained him. If God had not removed the scales covering his eyes to see beyond himself and his hatred, he would still be the same Jean Valjean who trampled on the silver coin of a small boy, and—even if he were to rise to Mayor as an unchanged man—would govern selfishly, exploiting the miseries of the poor in his insatiable quest to pay back the world with hate. The Bishop changed all that, forgiving him, showing him that there was another way to go. _It is your soul that I am buying for you. I withdraw it from dark thoughts and from the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God._ The transaction was sealed that day. Valjean was purchased for God.

But now, out in space, to whom did he belong? The universe was a vast pool of oppressive silence, suffocating his soul, destroying he only reason that had spurred him on all these years to be good. What did it matter if Jean Valjean remained thief and criminal, if there was no God to either bear his sins or to condemn them?

Javert had recognized him. Valjean knew he wasn’t in chains and back in the galleys only because they were in space. The circumstance allowed him to reclaim his identity as Madeleine. But why? What reason did he have now to choose Madeleine over _Jean-le-Cric_ , when neither man would be any more significant in the vast cosmos? Should he go back? No! That would throw away everything that had become of him, every shred of decency that goodness brought about: happiness, peace, prosperity, freedom. Whether granted by God or wrought by his own hands, Valjean valued his new life too much to let Javert take it away.

 _Oh Lord, I do—I want to—believe. Help thou my unbelief,_ he prayed, lifting his eyes to the cross at the front of the chapel that seemed to be moving farther and farther away, dimming as it retreated. _Find me, Lord, for I am lost._ The hum of the TARDIS lowered into a murmur, as if the spaceship was trying to give voice to a God who could not answer.

Slowly, he stood up and grabbed the outer coat that he had shed when he first entered the chapel. He wrapped it around his body—putting on Madeleine, Monsieur le Maire—and schooled his features into one of carefree contentment.

If God was out there, then let him answer the prayer that he had just uttered with the last drop of his faith. Thus drained, there was nothing more that either Jean Valjean or Madeleine could do.

-

Javert was in deep contemplation over his scrimmage with Valjean (for he could no longer think of him by any other name) and paid no particular heed to his surroundings as he wandered about the TARDIS. At length, his feet led him to what appeared to be the kitchen, and he realized he had not eaten since morning. A quick ransacking of the cupboards revealed a host of items labeled “instant”: coffee, noodles, oatmeal, soup, processed meat and fish, and dried fruits. Most required simple rehydration followed by boiling or a process called microwave. He also discovered an ice box. The upper, colder compartment was filled to the brim with boxes labeled “fish fingers” and the lower compartment with tubs of custard.

Never a rich man, Javert had learned to procure food on his own with his meager salary. He was also a man skilled at following instructions. A quick matching of the drawings on a package of noodles confirmed that the device with circular discs and knobs to the front was a stove. He turned one of the knobs until the clicking sound gave way to a blue flame, the shape of the fire not dissimilar to what was shown in the picture. He located a pot, filled it with water—it was not difficult to find the knob that turned the persistent drip of a water pipe into a fountainhead—waited until the water boiled, and dumped in two items: the noodles and something called SPAM, which he understood to be a type of meat. He added the requisite flavoring packages at the instructed time and, within minutes, found himself seated by the kitchen table with a passable meal.

“I see you’re quite the chef!” The girl—Clara—walked in, her brown hair damp. She went straight to the ice box and pulled out a container of fish fingers.

“Pardon me, mademoiselle, but do you or the Doctor cook?” Javert asked. He did not intend it to be an insult and hoped it didn’t come across as such, but he was genuinely curious as to how she and the Doctor managed to travel for days at a time without either of them seemingly possessing any culinary knowledge.

“Me? Oh no, you don’t want to try my cooking. I keep trying to make soufflés, but I fail every single time. I’m an expert at using the microwave though,” she said as she demonstrated its use, emptying the fish fingers into a plate and simply waited once she put the food inside the device and pressed several buttons.

She placed the finished product at the center of the table. “Here, try some. It’s the Doctor’s favorite. The only thing he really eats, actually. He likes to dip them in custard but I’m not a fan of it. What do you think?”

Javert took a piece and hazarded a bite. “Acceptable,” he pronounced. He would have preferred a firmer texture to balance the crunch on the outside. But the flavoring was savory, and he considered it a luxury to have both fish and meat to eat in the same meal.

“Great, glad you like it!” Clara, clearly famished, ate three pieces in short order. Javert turned back to his food and realized that he, too, was very hungry. The noodles had a strange aftertaste and he couldn’t determine what meat he was eating even after four slices, but these minor quibbles did not kept him from consuming every bit and morsel.

They sat in companionable silence until Clara finished her meal.

“Where’s Mr. Madeleine?”

Javert schooled his face into an expression of indifference. “Exploring the TARDIS, no doubt. We parted ways shortly after you left for the pool.”

“That’s good, I’m sure he’ll find something to do. Inspector, do you want some coffee?”

He suddenly remembered the instant packet of coffee he had found. He had wanted to try it. “Yes, I will have some. Thank you.”

Clara opened another cupboard and took out a device which Javert assumed was designed for brewing coffee. “The Doctor doesn’t like coffee and I only drink occasionally,” she explained, “so I keep the coffee maker tucked away. How much do you want? Should I make some for Mr. Madeleine too?”

Javert recalled that coffee was one of the few luxuries that Valjean allowed in his spartan lifestyle as Mayor. “I’m sure he’d be delighted.”

Aroma filled the air as the coffee dripped from the top of the machine into the glass carafe below. There was something soothing about watching the coffee being collected. Whoever made this device had crafted all its parts to precision. The hole from which the water passed through the filter and exited as coffee was situated exactly above the tiny opening of the carafe that received the brewed liquid. Small and simple as the coffee maker was, not one piece was out of place.

“Milk and sugar?” Javert shook his head. “What about Mr. Madeleine, do you know?”

“He likes his sweet,” he said, and Clara took out a sugar bowl and left it beside the coffee machine. Javert recalled the first time he saw Valjean poured a shock-inducing amount of sugar into his coffee. He had had to exercise much self restraint to not confiscate the entire sugar pot after Valjean scooped a fourth spoonful. In retrospect, it wasn’t difficult to make the connection between deprived childhood and adulthood indulgence. Javert did not consider Toulon. There was no coffee at the _bagne_.

“Mademoiselle.”

“Yes?”

Javert considered warning Clara of Valjean, since she clearly had taken a liking to him. While he would continue to behave as Mayor Madeleine, their earlier altercation had triggered the resurface of Jean Valjean, and reactions from a cornered animal were unpredictable at best. But Valjean had never been violent…

“Thank you, for the coffee.”

Clara grinned. “You’re very welcome, Inspector.” Taking a freshly warmed plate of fish fingers in one hand and a bowl of custard in the other, Clara exited the kitchen.

-

Clara found the Doctor in the game room, playing chess with Madeleine.

“Clara!” The Doctor beamed at her. “Come join us. Oh, you brought me food!”

“Yes I did.” Clara seated herself at the short end of the table, between a very hungry Doctor and Madeleine, whose look of concentration was accentuated by knitted brows that betrayed his mental state of quandary.

After a long struggle, Madeleine moved his queen to the square directly in front of his bishop.

“Good effort,” the Doctor said in between mouthfuls of fish fingers and custard, “but not good enough.” He moved his knight to capture Madeleine’s queen. “Checkmate in two moves. I’m afraid it’s game over.”

Madeleine bowed his head. “Well played, Doctor. I am a poor match to your skills.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Madeleine. Did you know that the Time Lords invented chess? I had an unfair advantage from the start. Another game?”

“I believe I’ve exhausted myself for today,” Madeleine said, looking at the Doctor in silent communication that signaled Madeleine had done more than play chess with the Doctor in the past several hours. Clara wondered what could have disquieted the gentle mayor.

The Doctor, for his part, responded to Madeleine’s unspoken words. “Yes, long day. It’ll all make sense to you eventually.”

“There’s coffee for you in the kitchen,” Clara said to Madeleine as he made his way out of the room. Tipping his hat in both thanks and acknowledgement, Madeleine took his leave.

“He’ll be fine,” the Doctor said after Madeleine had gone.

“What do you mean? Is he alright?”

“I mean exactly what I mean. Madeleine’s going to be fine.”

Clara snatched the plate of fish fingers from the table and held it away from the Doctor’s reach. Her lips twitched at hearing the high-pitched whine of despair that immediately followed. “No riddles, Doctor. What’s going on?”

The Doctor picked up the bowl of custard and started _drinking_ it. Clara grimaced, which made the Doctor’s custard-mustached grin even wider. Rolling her eyes, she placed the fish fingers back onto the table but looked at the Doctor expectantly, signaling that it was his turn to keep his end of the bargain. The Doctor grabbed a fish finger and used it to wipe off the custard around his lips. Then he ate his face-cleaning tool.

“Five times, Clara,” he said once all his meal was consumed, as if it explained everything. “ _Five times_ I allowed him to win the game if he’d only sacrifice his bishop. But he didn’t do it.”

The Doctor was really talking to himself at this point. Clara could almost hear the gears in his head turning, working out just how successful he was at playing chess not with game pieces, but through manipulating his interactions with Madeleine.

The Doctor touched a hand to his bow tie, idly playing with it. “The bishop is everything to him. That’s a good sign, very good. He’s not giving up.”

Sighing, Clara let the matter go, admitting defeat. The Doctor wasn’t going to make any sense. She’d just have to accept that whatever happened between the Doctor and Madeleine, things were going according to the Doctor’s plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proper adventuring will begin next chapter, I promise! New New York awaits...
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and I welcome any thoughts and comments!


	5. New New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and his companions found themselves in New New York, a city full of surprises and things to discover...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references heavily to events from the Doctor Who episode _Gridlock_. You don't have to have watched the episode, I tried to explain any references I made and hope I succeeded. For further context, the short scene I linked to in the end notes may be helpful.

“Let’s try again,” the Doctor said the next morning—or after they had all rested and taken breakfast, since it was always dark in space—as he flipped switches and circled around the TARDIS console. “The Old Girl is cooperating again. I think an Earth colony sounds like a good idea, don’t you? You’ll get to see what humans are like thousands of years from now.”

A few more pulling of levers and pushing of buttons sent the TARDIS hurling toward the future and its occupants scrambling to hold onto something to keep them from being flung halfway across the console room. The Doctor let out a cry that was pure joy and enthusiasm. The TARDIS eventually stabilized and, breaking out of the Time Vortex into a swirling galaxy then into a ring of stars, eventually landed on a planet with blue sky and a bright warm sun. Whatever misgivings either Madeleine or Javert may have had of their strange plight were melted away. On the other side of the door, a new world awaited.

-

“Doctor!” a voice cried out as soon as he opened the TARDIS door. Well, that was totally unexpected. A distant figure was running toward him. From its shadowed outline, the Doctor could see frock, pointy hat, female figure… yes, definitely female now that she was getting closer. And oh! Furry face, whiskers, intelligent eyes…

“Novice Hame! Long time no see, well for me at least.” The Doctor frowned. “Why are you here? Am I in New New New New New New New New New New –” He took a breath. “New New New New New New York without knowing it?”

The cat-person stopped short of crashing into the Doctor and giving him a hug. Her face shone with gratitude, like she was relieved to see him again. _This is a bad sign, very bad_ , the Doctor said to himself. No one should be this glad to see him.

Novice Hame caught her breath after a minute or so of beaming at the Doctor. “So glad you came, Doctor. You’ve changed,” she said, noting the different skin that the Doctor now wore since the last time they met.

“Yes, new regeneration, got tired of the way I used to look. Do you like it?”

“The sight of you is always welcome, Doctor,” Novice Hame said. “Have you been well?”

“I’m splendid, thank you. But enough about me. These are my friends—Clara, Madeleine and Javert. Everyone, this is Novice Hame. Yes, she’s a cat. And a member of the Sisters of Plenitude. We’re on a planet called New New York. Well, the abbreviated version anyway. It’s the fifteenth New York so you do the math. And this is the year–?”

“Five billion sixty-five.”

“Ah, so it’s been twelve years since we last met. Pharmacytown has been cleaned up, I see.” The Doctor lifted his head to the tall government building some distance away. “And the Senate rebuilt?”

“Slowly rebuilding, yes,” Novice Hame answered. “After you left and The Face of Boe rested, it took six years for the survivors to settle back to normal life. We held our first election three years ago. Things were going so well until a few months ago… this is why I decided to summon you, Doctor.”

“You summoned me?”

Novice Hame inclined her head, and the Doctor thought he saw a tint of red flushing her furry face. “We didn’t know what else to do, Doctor. So we… I resorted to one of my Order’s rituals. We prayed and fasted for three days, then I performed the Summons Supplication in hope of drawing you here.”

“Next time, just call the TARDIS,” the Doctor muttered. He asked in a louder voice, “Did this summoning happen about half a day ago, by any chance? Ah, _that’s_ why the TARDIS stopped. She probably got confused. See, Clara, there’s an explanation for everything. We just have to figure it out.”

Novice Hame bowed deeply. “My apologies Doctor. I will make my atonement to you. But the matter is pressing and I must ask you to accompany me to the Senate… alone if possible.”

Out of the corners of his eyes, the Doctor saw Clara about to protest. Under normal circumstances, he would insist on bringing his companions. But his acquaintance with Novice Hame went back centuries (for his timeline, anyway). If the matter was as urgent as she made it, there would be no time for back stories. “No problem, I’d be happy to come with you.” He chanced an apologetic glance at Clara that promised a later explanation. The glare she sent his way made it clear it had better be a very good explanation. Gulping, he turned toward a friendlier face. “But only for a short meeting. I would like my friends to join me later for lunch. I’d be a terrible guide if I bring them to a new planet and abandon them to wander on their own.”

“Why, yes, of course.” Novice Hame turned to the Doctor’s companions and bowed. “Clara, Madeleine and Javert, I will meet you at the entrance of the Senate building at 1300 hour, after our city’s noontime service. In the meantime, please enjoy yourselves and explore New New York. Should you desire to make any purchases, just charge the cost to M. Hame.”

The Doctor clapped. “Excellent! Now that this is settled,” he said, bowing and extending a hand, “Novice Hame, after you.”

-

The Doctor ascended the stairs inside the Senate building. Novice Hame explained the state of the city as they went. The Senate had five members, representing a population of roughly five hundred thousand. Twelve years ago, the survivors that were released from the enclosed traffic loop numbered only in the thousands. But word got out that New New York was again habitable, and subsequent waves of inter-planetary immigration helped bolster the city’s reconstruction.

“We still only have one borough, New Manhattan. But if the city continues to flourish, we should be able to expand to three boroughs in eight to ten years.”

The Doctor listened with interest. New New York had a special place in his heart. He’d been here with Rose, then with Martha. It was here that he said his farewell to an old friend, the Face of Boe, who gave his life to keep alive those thousands of New New Yorkers that Novice Hame spoke about. And now, here with Clara and his new friends, the Doctor again marveled at the resilience of humans. No horror or adversity could stop them from finding places in the universe to call home. Judging by Novice Hame’s body language, her whiskers twitching in nervousness and her tail taut with tension, the Doctor knew that New New York was in for another disaster. But just like so many times before, he was confident the city’s inhabitants would come out of this looming danger with heads held high, and that a thousand years from now, New New York would be the five-borough city of Novice Hame’s dreams.

The Doctor pushed open the door to the Senate chamber with a flourish. “Ah, here we are, hasn’t changed a bit. Well, minus the skeletons of dead Senators. That’s a good change.” They walked into a massive hall lined with stone columns on the long sides. Atop the columns lay two reclining scaffolds that housed the Senators’ seats, one on each length of the chamber. Long slits on the wall above the scaffolds served as windows, flooding the solemn hall with warm glows of sunlight. In its glory days, the hall could seat hundreds. With just five Senators—the Doctor glanced at the ten or so chairs placed on the floor before him—he supposed it was much easier to conduct business around a makeshift platform in the middle of the ring of chairs.

The Doctor darted his eyes toward the back section of the chamber. When he was here last, it was in that corner of the Senate hall that the Face of Boe revealed the secret that he wasn’t the last of the Time Lords. He was surprised to see a faint glow coming from that same area.

“Come, Doctor,” said Novice Hame, “that’s what I need to show you.”

As they approached, the glow became brighter. It took two more steps for the Doctor to clear a corner and see the source of light: a jar, about the size of another jar he remembered well that used to preserve his newly regenerated, cut-off hand, filled with liquid and a tentacle-like object. The tentacle was emitting the light, illuminating the dark corner.

Novice Hame came up behind him. “This is the Face of Boe’s last gift to us, a piece of himself. It’s the reason why I requested a private conference with you. You’re his old friend, Doctor, and when he was alive, he only ever asked for you. I would think that even in death, he wouldn’t want too many strangers to intrude…”

“No, he wouldn’t,” the Doctor agreed. He felt as if he were stepping on hallowed ground. A relic of the Face of Boe, the savior of New New York. He was indeed grateful that his traveling companions were not with him.

“For twelve years he watched over the city,” Novice Hame continued, her voice low and reverent. “Then six months ago, the jar started to glow. He’d warned us this would happen, the glow. It means troubles ahead. And… Doctor, it has begun! Disappearances, people snatched from thin air. It took us a while to notice, but we’ve counted over three hundred in six months so far. No explanation, no traces. One day here and the next day gone.”

The Doctor considered her words. He supposed there could be a connection between the disappearances and the glowing of Boe’s jar. But a preserved piece of a dead being could not predict things. There must be a connection between the composition of the jar’s content and what was causing people to vanish.

“These people, what do they have in common?” the Doctor asked.

“The police is still investigating that. Most seem to come from poorer households, but we have had a Senator’s son taken. Samuel Laftner, just twenty years old. The old Senator was devastated.”

“And the locations?”

“All over New New York. We’ve only been able to map where the victims were last seen. So if someone was last spotted on their way to work, there’s no way to pinpoint exactly where he or she was taken.” Novice Hame added, “This isn’t limited to the outdoors. We know for certain people have disappeared while inside their homes.”

The Doctor found himself fiddling with his bowtie. Based on what Novice Hame told him so far, he would need to talk with more people before drawing conclusions. It sounded like both the Senate and the police were involved. With lunch set to take place in the same building, he may get to gather some information from both.

“Three hundred disappearances is three hundred victims too many. Novice Hame, I promise I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Shall I –”

“I only have one request,” the Doctor said as he turned toward the jar, his eyes seeing not a floating tentacle, but _him_. “May I have a moment with…” With _it_? That felt obscene. With _him_? But he was no longer alive, and this was only a piece of what remained of the Face of Boe. “…with the jar, please?”

“Of course. I will be in the chamber if you need anything.” With a bow, Novice Hame excused herself from the area.

The Doctor walked closer and, losing all sense of time, simply gazed at the jar. He briefly wondered where the rest of Boe’s body had gone, before chiding himself that there was no body, that he was just a head. He suddenly felt glad that at least one part of Boe remained. To wipe someone off entirely, especially someone near immortal— _was_ immortal until he spent all his energy to save the New New Yorkers—somehow felt wrong, too cruel.

His hand was hesitant at first, but he rested it over the jar. For several seconds, the glow seemed to intensify. “Oh, Captain, my old friend,” he whispered, “You dealt me quite a surprise last time.” He thought back to the day when he found out Jack Harkness was the Face of Boe. For a man who couldn’t die to have finally gained rest at last, he supposed his final death was welcomed. He tapped the jar lightly. “I’ve missed you. Rest in peace.”

The glow of the tentacle seemed to answer him, imagined echoes of _Hello, Doctor_ ringing in his ears. He stood, basking in the faint but warm light, feeling a sense of mission coursing through him. He would do whatever it took to protect the people that Boe gave his life to save.

Taking out his sonic screwdriver, he raised his arm to scan the glowing tentacle. As expected, it registered a high level of rift energy. Well, that was a good start.

It was then that Novice Hame interrupted his thoughts. “Doctor, the noontime service is about to begin. Will you join me?”

His eyes lingered on the jar for several seconds before he turned around. Novice Hame was looking at him expectantly. He answered with a smile.

“With pleasure.”

When the clock tower struck twelve, a beautiful tune rose from all across the city:

__

_A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing;_  
 _Our helper He, amid the flood of mortal ills prevailing:_  
 _For still our ancient foe doth seek to work us woe;_  
 _His craft and power are great, and, armed with cruel hate,_  
 _On earth is not his equal._  
 _And though this world, with devils filled, should threaten to undo us,_  
 _We will not fear, for God hath willed His truth to triumph through us:_  
 _The Prince of Darkness grim, we tremble not for him;_  
 _His rage we can endure, for lo, his doom is sure,_  
 _One little word shall fell him._

Twelve years ago, the songs of New New Yorkers were sung by quivering voices, hoping against hope. Today, their song was a joyous affirmation. Beside him, Novice Hame joined in the people’s song. The Doctor closed his eyes, remembering the last time he heard those voices sing. He was inside a car traveling the trapped highway then, one of thousands of vehicles the Face of Boe had saved. _We are not abandoned. We still have each other_ , Thomas Brannigan had said to his wife Valerie. In the end, they were right. The Doctor smiled as he imagined where they were now, the cat-man with his wife and children, living in the sunny overworld. If he strained his ears, he could pretend to be able to make out their voices among the city’s choir.

-

In the streets of New New York, Madeleine stood, head bowed, raising his voice to the sky: _C'est un rempart que notre Dieu/ Une invincible armure_ … The sound of those singing around him warmed his heart. He was five billions years into the future and far away from home, yet God was here, the God of his Bishop, answering his prayer in a most unexpected way.

For what greater testament could there be to the eternal faithfulness of God, than to see mankind’s offspring still praising him, full of hope and faith, even when flung far into the universe, billions of light years from Earth?

God was _real_ , and Madeleine owed him his life and utter devotion. So he responded the only way that was proper. With words he knew by heart—though the familiarity in no way diminished their meaning—Madeleine sang.

_Un défenseur victorieux/_ _Une aide prompte et sure…_

Passersby who observed Madeleine in this moment would later describe that they saw at first a drowning soul clutching desperately at the thin thread of his faith. If they chose not to turn away, it was because the thin thread seemed to then grow stronger, brighter, pulling the wretched soul out of despair and into a glorious light. In the light, a profound peace seemed to spread like sunshine after snow across the man’s face, a peace that rose from the depths of his soul to melt away all doubt and fear. They saw a man who, until this point, was too powerless to stem the ebbing of his faith; this faith then became surer and stronger, until all that remained was a countenance of gold emerging from the refiner’s fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [The New New Yorkers sang "Old Rugged Cross"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1oEuWb9CxM) in _Gridlock_. 
> 
> 2\. I changed the hymn because I needed Madeleine to know the song. Unfortunately, "Old Rugged Cross" was written in the 1900s. So I chose instead a hymn that dated back to the 1500s, just to be safe.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	6. The Curious Case of the Disappearing New New Yorkers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes learn about New New York's recent history, socioeconomic well being (or lack thereof), and clues to solving the case of the disappearing New New Yorkers. Plus conflicted!Javert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mystery unfolds! I read a Sherlock Holmes novel recently so I may have borrowed some of its narrative style. If you enjoy playing detective, look for clues!

They reconvened for lunch. Around a table filled with food not dissimilar to what 19th century Frenchmen would eat—bread, roast chicken, potato _au gratin_ , a large bowl of salad with strange greens and curious fruits, various pies and cookies, and wine, a lot of wine—sat the Doctor, Clara, Madeleine, Javert, Novice Hame, Senator Laftner, Senator Tau, and Police Chief Hargrave.

Senator Laftner appeared to be in his fifties, with a full head of hair that was becoming more gray than brown. His brown eyes were warm whether he engaged in conversation with friend or stranger, but as soon as he retreated to his own thoughts, a profound sadness would cloud those clear eyes. He carried himself as a man past his prime; in his earlier years, he might have been handsome. Yet his once-proud face and square jaws were now lined with weariness, deepened by a perpetual frown. He wore loose clothes, though not as one who had no sense of fashion or had no regard for ill-fitting outfits. It was as if he were wasting away inside his clothing, his body shrinking while his shirt and trousers billowed all the more.

In contrast, Senator Tau was a stocky fellow in his forties with light blond hair, olive skin, and a demeanor that exuded liveliness. His inquisitive eyes were either hazel or green depending on the lighting. His lips, always ready to offer an argument, were a dark red. He wore the typical look and coloring of the ruling class of the planet Tau Zeta, but to everyone except the Doctor, Senator Tau simply looked distinguished. Despite being a recent immigrant, Senator Tau had been elected into the Senate shortly after his arrival and was currently serving his second term, his first as Senate Leader.

What drew our guests’ attention to Police Chief Hargrave was not his tall stature, muscular built, or his confident gait, but that he and Inspector Javert arrived at the Senate dining hall together, with the Chief’s arm draped across the Inspector’s shoulder as they walked. Aside from Javert’s whiskers, the two men could almost pass as cousins. Hargrave appeared to be slightly older, with spots of gray hair near his temples. Round, metal-rimmed glasses hid his gray eyes. Upon finding adjacent seats around the dining table, Hargrave remarked on his incredible good fortune on encountering a fellow police officer from Earth, while Javert said stiffly, as if trying to explain himself, “I happened to come across the Police Station while wandering the city.”

There was no mention of the horrors that plagued the city while food was being served and enjoyed by the company, thus, for a table consisting mostly of statesmen (Madeleine being a man of politics himself, and despite protestations, Novice Hame was _de facto_ a city administrator), the conversation naturally flowed to the topic of city planning and development.

“I honestly don’t think it’s fiscally responsible to open up another section of the city for inhabitation. We expanded into three new neighborhoods last year and that already increased city expenses by thirty percent. It’s a waste of money. Our population is barely growing at a year-to-year rate of five percent,” Senator Tau said.

“I don’t disagree, my dear Tau,” said Senator Laftner, his sorrow lifting at the topic of conversation, freeing his formidable mind to engage with present company. “But we mustn’t sacrifice quality of life at the expense of efficiency. When this city was rebuilt twelve years ago, we did it in the name of equity and dignity for every citizen. Oh, I wish you were here to see us then, Senator. There was not yet any poverty, not one among the thousands! Everyone shared their goods one with another. No one lacked basic needs. There was housing and employment for all, schooling for children, and medical care under the leadership of Matron Hame. It was a veritable Utopia.

“But look at us now! More and more people falling into poverty, parts of neighborhoods sectioned off into slums. We need to create economic incentives. Developing new neighborhoods will provide work for the poor and building new houses will get the homeless off the streets. More working individuals means a larger tax base, which in turn will improve our schools as we nurture more capable minds to become next generation’s leaders.

“What good is it to stuff everyone into the same few neighborhoods we now have while turning a blind eye to the underclass rotting away in the slums? Especially if we public servants do nothing to help them? I don’t believe such injustice should exist in the year five billion.”

Senator Tau wore a patient smile on his face as Senator Laftner went through his manifesto, answering every so often with a nod. He waited until the older statesman finished before responding. “My friend, you know this debate will get us nowhere, as we both know from the last three Senate meetings. I see your points, and believe it or not, I agree with you. However, our primary responsibility is to bring flourishing to the city, and this includes prudence in planning and fiscal oversight. There are vacant properties that can be turned into housing throughout the available neighborhoods. Traffic congestion can be alleviated by increasing air height for another lane of cars. With so much work to do in our current districts, I simply don’t feel comfortable expanding our city just for expansion’s sake.”

“And we will not!” Laftner protested. “I believe we have good reason to expand. Just look at the three new neighborhoods we designated last year. All of them are now sufficiently inhabited to warrant their own school bus route. And when I checked yesterday, the Senate has received three thousand immigration applications from your home planet alone requesting to settle in one of our newest neighborhoods. I’d say it’s prime time we open up a fourth new section. You know the saying: If we build it, they will come.”

“And who will pay for these newcomers?” Tau countered. “They will require municipal services, extension of transportation routes, and the building out of sewage pipes and other utility infrastructures. Do I need to remind you that while New New York’s annual operating budget is running on a surplus, our capital budget is almost entirely depleted? We don’t have enough even to build ten miles of new tunnels, let alone hundreds!”

“Our citizens will contribute,” Laftner said in a confident tone. “Back when we first created the government, the city’s income depended entirely on donations. Twelve years later, our tax burden is still light. If we make an appeal, we can raise enough money to build thousands of miles of roads.”

Upon Laftner’s proposition, Tau looked at his fellow Senator as if he had grown two heads. As if to prevent an outburst that he would later regret, he cleared what remained of his salad and drained his glass of wine, before speaking in a level tone, “You always talk nonstop of equity over efficiency, and yet here you are proposing to rob our middleclass households of their surplus income for discretionary spending. If citizens feel obliged to donate to the city—and mark my word, they will hear your supplication for voluntary donation as a mandate—then who suffers as a result? A worker who doesn’t get offered a job because the employer donated the would-be salary toward expanding the city into a new neighborhood that nobody needs? An elderly woman who must choose between affording her medication and her duty to the city? You wave the flag of equity, dear Senator, but what you are proposing will only exacerbate the growth of poverty.”

“So what do you propose then?” Laftner said hotly. “The Senate already voted down my suggestion to issue interplanetary bonds for construction of affordable housing in existing neighborhoods. Our options are limited. If we don’t redirect our development projects to new neighborhoods—where the cost will be much lower than the city’s center—there won’t be sufficient economic activities to sustain our citizens’ quality of life. When I speak of equality, I don’t mean holding everyone down to the lowest baseline. I envision a New New York where everybody’s living standards improve together.”

“Dreaming won’t get you anywhere,” Tau pointed out. “My point is simple and it is this: don’t spend what we don’t have. We don’t have the money for expansion, and frankly I see neither the need nor a sound reason for it.”

Senator Laftner waved a hand, “I know, I know. We understand each other too well, dear Tau, and on this point neither of us will budge. Please, pass me the cheesy potatoes.” He turned to Madeleine as he scooped a generous amount onto his plate. “What about you, Mayor? I hear you raised a city out of poverty and have developed quite an impressive reputation in your own time. What are your thoughts on our present dilemma?”

Madeleine tipped his hat in an attempt to deflect Laftner’s praise. “You flatter me, Senator,” he demurred. “The inhabitants of Montreuil-sur-Mer would make up but one small neighborhood in this big city. Yet since you ask, I will share with you my thoughts.

“I’ve come to realize that a city can only flourish if it can sustain its population with its economy. I was fortunate to have been the cause of Montreuil-sur-Mer’s prosperity, for I run a large factory and receive orders from as far as England and Germany. This in turn provided jobs for the poor and money to improve the city.

“For five years now, Montreuil-sur-Mer has had a surplus. Even before becoming Mayor, I had taken the liberty to invest the surplus into developing needed infrastructures. We now have a school, a hospital, an orphanage and, by God’s grace, I expect the construction of a second school in two year’s time. Ah, no thank you.” Madeleine held up a hand at being offered more wine. “As you can see, were Montreuil-sur-Mer not blessed with my unexpected business success, none of the civic improvements would have been possible.”

“And do you tax yourself?” Laftner asked.

Madeleine shook his head. “I do not regulate taxation. But I donate what I can to the city. I’ve been able to invest millions of francs into improving the city, all thanks to my factory’s success. If you don’t mind my asking, Senators, what is the state of New New York’s economy? What commerce does the city engage in?”

“Aha, good man, you’re not like any other politicians!” exclaimed Laftner. “Straight to the point and not one to praise yourself incessantly, very good, very good.” He raised his glass and drained its content as if to salute the mayor. He then continued, “Dear Madeleine, I believe you have identified New New York’s sorest problem. When this planet died except for the few thousands saved by the Face of Boe, all of our economy died with it. We once had a bustling car manufacturing business, but no longer. Ten years ago, a group of Earth colony settlers claimed a deserted planet in the Gimalàn Galaxy and named it Car Shop. You can imagine what the planet produces and the death blow it struck to our former car export industry.

“We attempted many things over the years. Our dear Matron Hame here tried to rebuild New New York’s healthcare industry, but it will be another generation of medical trainees before the hospital will become fully staffed. We started reopening our mines and oil fields, but the decades of contamination from car exhaust fumes and the macras infestation rendered our resources unmarketable. We have achieved a modicum of success with our information industry and many of our citizens sell their services to other planets as analysts and researchers, but this sector is still in its infancy stage. We, ah, had a thriving drug industry. But since it was drugs that killed off almost everybody from the planet forty years ago, the Senate of this new government has prohibited all drug use.”

And this point, Hargrave the Police Chief, who had until now listened with interest but in silence, interjected: “Drug use is still rampant among the underclass, Senators. The problem has grown with the number of idle youths picking fights inside the slums. The police have our hands full in making arrests. You speak of opening an additional highway, Senator Tau, but my team doesn’t even have the capacity to patrol existing airways to ticket speed limit offenders.”

“Ah, yes, the ever tightening constraint of the police department’s budget,” Laftner said as he topped off the glasses of his conversation-mates with a new bottle of wine. “You do good work, Hargrave. Your predecessor, Thomas what’s-his-face from whom you took over half a year ago, would turn a blind eye to crimes in the slums. I must say I prefer your firm-hand approach, Chief, with all your arrests. The other Senators are always grumbling about how our increasing arrest numbers will deter would-be immigrants from settling in New New York. But I tell you, every time someone preaches crime rates to my face, I simply point them to our plummeting recidivism rates. Nip it in the bud, as your deputy likes to say. I can’t agree more.”

“With all due respect,” Tau said, “Our drop in recidivism is partly due to longer prison sentences. First offenders simply haven’t had the chance to be released to commit more crimes.”

“Are you so certain, dear Tau? What do you propose, that we let everyone we arrest go free so we can bait our breath and see how many would reoffend?”

“You mistake my point, Laftner,” Tau said. “I know you are bored of hearing this, but our prison system is also a fiscal matter –” At this, Laftner rolled his eyes. “The city must hire additional guards and employ them at longer hours, all of which cost money!”

“And so we come full circle, my friend,” Laftner pointed out. “If we expand New New York, there’s still a chance to eliminate the slums and provide work for all who are able-bodied and willing. If we don’t spend money, we aren’t going to make more.”

“And how do you propose we start on such a daunting task?”

“Schools, Messieurs,” Madeleine cut in. “I hold no firmer belief than this: that education of the youth, whether rich or poor, lays the surest foundation for building a society of law-abiding, productive citizens. I can attest to this, for both school and orphanage in Montreuil-sur-Mer have flourished, and the children there are given opportunities to succeed where previously their only option was a life in the gutters.

“And to your point regarding the reformation of criminals, I would propose the same. No man is too old to be educated. Teach him the letters and impress upon his heart the law of God, and even the vilest criminal may yet repent.”

Senator Laftner, having drunk many a glass of wine by this point, raised a hand and brought it down with a loud _thwack_ on Madeleine’s back. “Oh, dear Mayor, you speak such wisdom but yet you do not enmesh yourself in useless talks of political philosophy. I confess both Tau and I here are hopeless in abandoning the art of excessive debate. What do you say, Tau, no more day-long Senate sessions where five pathetic men and women shout over each other with personal ideology? If we emulate a fraction of the practical Madeleine, New New York may yet have hope.”

“I hold no higher priority than education,” said Tau, “and I would gladly submit to the Senate a proposal to construct a new school if it isn’t for the fact that –”

“We don’t have the money. Yes, Tau, you are nothing but predictable. Here, you seem to be finished with your chicken. Have some more wine.”

“You are slurring, Senator,” Hargrave said before an equally intoxicated Tau could jump into his rebuttal. “Let’s abstain from further drinking and take our dessert. I believe we still have serious matters to discuss with our guests.”

It should be mentioned that while Madeleine participated fully in conversing with New New York’s political _philosophes_ , the Doctor and Clara wasted no time in sampling—sometimes with seconds or thirds—every delectable offering on the lunch table (though, for the Doctor, it was everything but the wine). Novice Hame, on the other hand, barely made a dent in her plate, but requested a glass of milk from the server and was presently dipping her chocolate cookies into the milk in earnest. Javert seemed to pay more attention to his food than to what was being spoken, but a keen observer would not miss the sudden interest he seemed to have acquired for the conversation when it turned to the subject of criminal justice, and even more so when Madeleine made his education proposal as a response to reforming offenders. Thus each guest around the table, in consuming food whether physically or intellectually, found him or herself satisfied and relaxed by the end of the pleasant meal.

-

After coffee was served, it was the Doctor who steered the next conversation. “So, gentlemen and lady— _Matron_ Hame, I may add. Of course you wouldn’t still be a novice after so many years. And here you are letting me call you Novice all this time!”

A blush fell across the cat-woman’s face. “To you, Doctor, I will always want to be known as Novice Hame.”

“And so you’ll always be Novice Hame to me,” the Doctor promised. “But back on topic. I believe we were called here by Matron-Novice Hame to solve a mystery. Clara, Madeleine, and Javert, to bring you up to date: People have been disappearing. Over three hundred in six months. No evidence left behind. No suspects. Nothing to go by. My favorite kind of mystery. So, where to start?”

“There is evidence,” began Hargrave, being the most sober of the three New New York gentlemen, “that the first disappearances started as early as half a year ago. I was new to my post at the time and did not pay much attention to missing person reports. However, when a pattern began to emerge, I ordered my staff to track as much data as possible surrounding each disappearance.”

He pulled out a palm-sized device, pointed it toward the white wall closest to the dining table, and pressed a button. An image of the city was projected onto the wall. Hundreds of red and blue dots marred the green grid lines of streets and avenues, with clusters in the southeastern and far west parts of the city.

“Last-seen locations of those who have disappeared,” he explained. “Red dots are victims we believe to have been taken from the ground. Blue dots are those who vanished while driving in one of the airways.”

A new map showed up when Hargrave pressed a button. This map looked similar to the first one, with dots in different places but concentrated near the same two neighborhoods. The dots were all black.

“Addresses of residency we have of the victims, again, no clear pattern beyond random clustering. The homeless tend to spend their nights in either the southeast or the far west region.” _The slums_ , though not spoken, was implied and understood by everyone.

The next several displays consisted mostly of graphs and charts: demographic characteristics of the victims (random), their occupations (random), income level (mostly poor), length of residency in New New York (both natives and immigrants), health status (random), criminal records (many with arrest records, though not all), available information on their families (random), etc. Each image served to underscore the fruitlessness of drawing any conclusion from the lack of common characteristics among the victims, except—

“There are no children, the victims,” the Doctor pointed out.

“You’re right!” Clara exclaimed. “Three hundred people, not one child. What are the odds for this happening by chance?”

“Close to none,” Hargrave answered. Nodding at the Doctor, he added, “Very astute observation, Doctor. We have noticed this as well. A fifth of New New York’s population are minors under the age of eighteen. If the disappearances are purely random, then youths should be among the victims. But we have no known disappearance of persons under the age of majority. Not one.”

At this, the Doctor remembered what Novice Hame told him and he glanced over at Laftner. The poor man was once again shrouded in sorrow, the alcohol clearly contributing to his depression. _Samuel Laftner, just twenty years old_. The Doctor frowned. Whatever made young Samuel a target, it was certainly not solely due to bad luck. The thought made him sick to the stomach. Every single one of the three hundred takings was planned.

“When was the last disappearance, Chief?” the Doctor asked.

“Two days ago. A woman left work and never made it home. Candace Thorpe. She is… _was_ an active community organizer and had for years been fighting for the rights of the poor.”

“You know her well then?”

Hargrave chuckled, a sound of an embarrassed man. “We have, ah, clashed several times along different sides of the picket line. I may have resorted too quickly to force when I was a junior officer. She had quite a personality to reckon with, explosive fierceness and never backing down from her protests.” He touched a finger to his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. “She was a good woman though, passionate and dedicated to her causes.”

“Where did she disappear, from your best guess?”

Hargrave brought up the map illustrating last seen locations, took out his police baton, and pointed to an intersection just north of the southeast slum. “Here. She never reached the parking lot. We found her car at the same spot she left it that morning. No attempted break in. The parking lot attendant did not recall seeing her that evening.”

“Everyone, there is no time to waste.” Pushing his chair out with a loud _screech_ , the Doctor stood up. “Officer, I must ask you to take me to the intersection at once. Clara, with me. Madeleine, see to it that the Senators can make their way back to their offices. Javert, go do police-y things and find me some useful information. We’ll meet back at the TARDIS in an hour.”

Without pausing to see if his two French guests might protest, the Doctor took his sonic screwdriver in one hand and Clara’s hand in the other, and headed straight for the door.

-

Madeleine was busy steadying Senator Laftner and deciding whether it was a good idea to let a visibly tipsy Senator Tau escort him back to his office.

“I’ll be fine, gentlemen,” Laftner protested. “Just up two flights of stairs. I can manage.”

“Then let me help you walk up the stairs,” Madeleine said. “No, I insist. I have no doubt you can manage, Messieurs, I merely want to take a bit more of your time if you don’t mind. Tell me, the surplus in your operating budget that you spoke of, how did that come about? You see, as the chief financier of Montreuil-sur-Mer, I have been thinking about transitioning to a more sustainable method of financing the city’s operations for a while. I realize I can learn much from you.”

The tactic seemed to have worked. The cloud of gloom lifted momentarily from Laftner’s face as he and Tau wobbled arm-in-arm and headed toward the back exit that led to the staircase.

“Excellent foresight, dear Mayor. Long-term sustainability is one of my areas of expertise. I shall share with you how our unexpected windfall came about. Tau, feel free to interject if I miss anything. About a year ago, the city was contacted by an anonymous source…”

Javert stood, staring at the empty door long after Madeleine and the Senators left, barely registering that the cat-woman had approached him and was asking if everything was all right.

“I am fine, Madame, thank you,” Javert said out of habit. He heard her say something about needing to tend to hospital businesses and soon, he was left alone in the dining chamber.

He was so certain, yet so very conflicted.

In the past hour, the faces of Jean Valjean and Madeleine seemed to have come together and stayed overlapped, so that he could no longer pull one apart from the other. In Montreuil-sur-Mer, he had no interest in attending pointless socialite events and had turned down every invitation the Mayor had extended to him to dinners, galas, banquets, etc. His handful of contacts with Madeleine had been brief and he almost always extricated himself as soon as possible. He had, of course, observed Madeleine the Saint walking about the city and giving alms to the poor, but from a distance, it was always easy to find fault in his actions: either the thief was engaging in charity to soothe his conscience, or the fraud was acting the part of a just man when arbitrating cases among disputing citizens. He had known Madeleine to be pious and attended mass daily, but Javert did not go to church.

It wasn’t until today that he got to see Madeleine the Mayor, living and breathing as the politician that he truly was. Javert could detect no deceit in Madeleine as he held his own among easy conversations and flowing political discourses. He related to the Senators as equals and, a voice inside Javert added, he was right in treating Laftner and Tau as colleagues. Madeleine’s very person had exuded experience, renown, and confidence. His mind was quick to engage and his tongue slow to offend. He proposed sound ideas. He was, Javert had to admit, the very paragon of a dignitary he would want Earth to have to represent his planet to the rest of the universe.

And yet he was a _convict_.

It would be so easy to allow himself to doubt, to fall back on his excuse of insufficient evidence. But after seeing yet more proof of Madeleine’s actions that betrayed Valjean’s past, Javert could no more lie to himself than deny the sense of horror rising from the pit of his stomach. He had no qualms about serving the Law and Justice. What he hated was this ridiculous sense of admiration that was now inextricably associated with the thought of Madeleine. That ought not be, that _could not_ be.

What should he do? In all his dreams, he had never imagined confronting Jean Valjean on a different planet and in a different time. In his mind, he would be looming over the convict, snarl on his lips and a sense of triumph intoxicating his senses. Valjean would either be fallen or kneeling before him—he didn’t care which—hands cuffed and eyes wild with terror. Sometimes, he would imagine less terror and more hatred in those eyes, and it would give Javert the excuse he needed to box him on the head. Valjean would not be subdued willingly, never, but in all his scenarios, Javert had had no difficulty bringing down the stronger man.

But could he do that now, now that Valjean was not simply Valjean but also Madeleine?

As his mind drifted, he had let his feet wander and Javert once again found himself at the entrance of New New York’s police station. The guards recognized him and welcomed him inside. Such a contrast, this place was, to the miserable constabulary of Montreuil-sur-Mer. During his earlier visit he had seen two people brought in for petty crimes. They were treated _kindly_. Javert thought back to the sermons Madeleine the Mayor had forced down his ears, droning on about improving the conditions of the holding cells and town prisons. If Justice had provided a kinder environment to Valjean, he wondered what might have become of that bitter, hate-filled man in Toulon.

But justice was not kind on Earth in his time and for all Madeleine’s protests, Jean Valjean was obviously adjusted and well. So Javert pushed his thoughts aside and asked the clerk whether he may continue with examining the police records of New New York, for the sake of what Hargrave had earlier termed a “mutual exchange of interplanetary policing best practices.”

He was led to a desk with several large binders. Opening the first one to a marked page where he had left off earlier, Javert set to work.

-

The Doctor checked his sonic screwdriver. Just as expected, there was a spike in rift energy at this exact intersection where Candace Thorpe had disappeared. Even two days later, the reading was still high. The energy that breached through from the rift to this world must have been massive, and most definitely powerful enough to snatch any unfortunate man or woman right off the street.

“This was not a disappearance, Hargrave. They’re abductions, all three hundred plus cases of them.” He returned his sonic to his coat pocket. “Has anyone seen a rip in the sky, an opening, anything?”

Hargrave shook his head. “None reported, Doctor. Believe me, if I or any of my men had spotted an opening, we would be the first to dive in to investigate.”

“There must be something, though. These people, were they all taken one by one?”

“If you’re asking whether there are eyewitnesses, I’m afraid the answer is no.” Hargrave looked thoughtful for a moment. “Although there is one person with whom I and my team did not press the issue.”

“Senator Laftner.”

Hargrave nodded. “The whole city knows that the Senator’s son was taken right before his eyes. When I got to the scene, a more devastated man I couldn’t have found. He was… crippled, from that moment on. I let the issue rest. It seemed inappropriate to subject a grieving father to interrogation.”

The Doctor waved away the Police Chief’s concern. “I don’t detect any foul play with Laftner, you’re right in not interrogating him. But this is good. Since the Senator wasn’t taken, we now know that the rift only steals one person at a time, which means I can calculate the energy needed to transport a single humanoid into a different dimension.”

“And you can calibrate the TARDIS to detect all rift activities above a certain energy level all across the city and make predictions on where it’s going to strike next!” Clara interjected.

The Doctor tapped Clara’s nose playfully. “Very nice! This is exactly what I’m going to do.” Turning to Hargrave, he continued, “Chief, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take over investigation of this case from you, since it involves multidimensional calculations and phenomena far beyond your station’s capacity. But if you don’t mind, I would appreciate a map of the city, a car—one of those flying ones, please, four flashlights, and a packet of jammie dodgers or whatever the equivalent you have in this time.”

“I will provide you with the first three right away,” Hargrave said.

The Doctor shrugged. “Well, it was worth a try. Come on Clara, off to the Chief’s office, collect some readings, then back to the TARDIS!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, comments and feedback are much appreciated.
> 
> The next chapter won't be as long as this one and I'm in the process of finalizing it. It should be posted soon.


	7. The Confrontation, Space Edition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logic dictates that confronting Valjean in space will require special considerations. Javert is a logical person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update, but an important one that I decided to leave as a standalone chapter.

Javert was the first one back in the TARDIS. He was just leaving the police station when he spotted the Doctor and Clara taking off in a car that Hargrave had provided. The Doctor had said he would return soon. Javert very much doubted it.

Minutes later, he heard a knock on the door and opened it to find Valjean standing on the other side.

Valjean’s eyes widened in confusion. “How –”

Javert shrugged. “The TARDIS seems to allow me entry whenever I request it of her.” He stood aside to let Valjean enter. “How are those drunkards?”

“Safely back in their offices. Alcohol does much to loosen their tongues. I learned some fascinating details about New New York’s revenue sources, which I’ll share with the group later. And you?”

“I also managed to unearth some peculiar information about this place’s criminal records. Though for me, I would use the word ‘unusual’ instead of ‘fascinating.’” Javert waved a hand toward the stairs on the far side of the console room. “It may be a while yet until our team reconvenes. Sit?”

They walked in companionable silence as Javert considered his next move. He was duty-bound to uphold the law. But whose law? Here in New New York, Montreuil-sur-Mer felt like a lifetime away. Here, Jean Valjean was a traveler, welcomed guest, honored mayor, and—dare he say—ally. But they were not teammates, for members of a team trusted each other. Javert may be traveling in the TARDIS with Valjean, may even against his better judgment started to respect Madeleine, but he did not trust him.

So why was it that he wanted to?

They sat side by side and, for a brief moment, Javert wished this could go on forever. If it were simply Javert and Madeleine, this rapport may have developed into something akin to friendship. The thought, though alarming, did not disturb him as much as he expected. He looked over at Valjean. He was relaxed, almost unguarded. How he managed his dual identities, Javert didn’t know. The robbery and parole violation he may have been willing to ignore while they were in New New York, but to pretend to be someone as honorable as Madeleine (and be so convincing at it, his mind supplied) was hypocrisy, and that was a crime that no planet would condone.

So, with a tinge of something that felt almost like regret, Javert forged ahead.

“You play the part of the Mayor well, Monsieur.”

Those open, warm eyes first betrayed surprise, then terror, before settling into something like indifference. “If you’re referring to my interaction with the Senators and the Police Chief, then I take it as a compliment.” Valjean gave Javert one of those pointed looks, as if penetrating straight into his soul, searching for his true motives. “After all, even though I only govern a small city in what they would consider the ancient times, I am still a mayor.”

“Indeed,” Javert said. “But you know very well that this is not what I was referring to.”

“Oh?”

“I must confess that I had my doubts. Is Monsieur Madeleine really the saint that everyone thinks him to be? When weighed against the rulers of a large future city, would he be found wanting?” He paused, pretending not to notice Valjean shifting uncomfortably next to him. “You will be surprised to hear this, but my answer is no. No, you were not found wanting. Those fools of Senators were delighted by you and would sooner orbit around your very presence. It seems that I was wrong, Monsieur. You are a proper, good mayor.”

Valjean gaped at him then. The shock seemed to have taken years off his face, making him look younger, almost innocent. In the proximity, Javert could see the lines on Valjean’s face, each etched by its own story. This face had entered Toulon smooth. All things considered, the years had been kind to Valjean.

“Can we be done with this then, your suspicions and whatever it is that you begrudge me for?”

There was no tactful way to ease into what he was going to say. So Javert chose bluntness.

“I’m under no illusion, Monsieur. My instinct tells me that there’s a sinister force at work behind the mystery we are investigating, and my instinct is always correct. Whatever plan of action the Doctor comes up with, we will need to work together.” He paused. “But I don’t trust you, Madeleine.”

Valjean said nothing.

“And you know why.”

Valjean snapped. “Don’t presume –”

“I presume nothing.”

“Yes you do! You have made presumptions the moment you stepped into Montreuil-sur-Mer.” Valjean’s words were hurried, freed from the constraints of politeness and propriety. The shell of Madeleine was cracking. “Your eyes, always on me, always that gleam of suspicion. You brand me an imposter, when all you have to do is open your eyes and see what’s before you. Have I acted uncharitably toward you, even once? If I have, tell me. Name one instance, Javert.”

“I don’t need to. Your words already incriminate you.”

“Am I incriminating myself now? Because I’m not who you think I should be? And who are you then? A _raille_ sniffing out nonexistent trails like a _cab_? _Vous êtes impossible, Javert!_ ”

Javert did not smile often. When he did, it resembled a cross between a grimace and a snarl. If Valjean accused him of being a dog, then he was only too happy to put on the face of a beast.

“Be careful, _Madeleine_ , your language betrays you.”

“As would any man who has his patience pushed to the limits,” Valjean said coldly.

“So you’re not a saint after all?”

A sad smile returned to Valjean’s face, softening the lines on his brow. “I never said I was.”

Javert had to concede the point. It was the citizens of Montreuil-sur-Mer—himself included, it seemed—who lifted the Mayor to nigh irreproachable status, into this damnable monster before Javert whom he _admired_.

Perhaps it was this realization that forced Javert to once again see the dual-man before him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that if he didn’t do something soon, Valjean would become all the more Madeleine by the second until not a trace of the convict would remain. Or perhaps he was weary of how he and Valjean kept dancing around each other, when both knew the truth deep inside. Whatever the reason, Javert found himself, uncharacteristically, willing to give up total victory.

“Look, I will not arrest you, not in New New York, I have no right to,” he began, ignoring the way Valjean’s body tensed and how he looked ready to bolt. “We will have a truce. We will work together and I will continue to honor you as Mayor.

“But you must come clean of your own accord. My offer is only for Jean Valjean.”

Valjean’s face was unreadable, his body coiled like a panther ready either to flee into the wilderness or to rip open the throat of its prey. Javert mentally calculated the quickest way to pull out his cudgel to strike, should the stronger man decide to attack.

They stayed like that for… seconds? Minutes? Time seemed to have lost importance. Javert could see nothing but Valjean’s eyes locked on his, heard only the sound of his heartbeat drumming in his ears, and felt the heat of his blood coursing through his body as he waited for the slightest movement from the man before him. His feet were ready, should he need to give chase. His hands were primed to spring into a hundred positions of defense and offense. His breath quickened, trying to match pace with his racing heart.

Then something in Valjean loosened and, in a flash, the tautness of a cornered beast gave way to the poise of a gentleman. Javert blinked. Madeleine, wearing that wistful, longsuffering smile, was sitting before him once again.

“He accepts,” Madeleine said, impertinently, on behalf of Valjean.

And then there was a chuckle—the warm, rumbling sound of the Mayor. Javert noticed the lines crinkling around Madeleine’s eyes. All signs of the feral convict were gone. “This isn’t how I imagined our confrontation would go, Inspector. I always thought you would slam me to the wall, cuff me, and cart me away without so much as a word of explanation.”

“Should I remind you that we’re on a strange planet, five billion years into the future?”

“Thank God for unexpected blessings!” Valjean looked at Javert expectantly. When Javert didn’t react, he prodded, “Go on then, tell me. What missteps have I made to finally betray myself?”

Javert was only too happy to oblige. “You made three key errors. First, you naturally assume the posture of the defensive. If I am to question Gisquet of his Prefectureship, I will get sacked, not receive an earful on how he shouldn’t be under my suspicion. Second, you repeatedly show knowledge of things that no one but Jean Valjean would know. And I’m not merely referring to that incident with your prison number, which in itself was incriminating enough. During lunch, you had no difficulty determining how to cut some of the more exotic fruits and greens in the salad. Your history as a pruner betrayed you. Third –”

“It was my education proposal, wasn’t it?”

“No, my more revolution-minded colleagues have uttered similar sentiments in the past. Of course, in retrospect, that’s exactly what a convict would say.” He allowed a rare smile to break free at the thought of Valjean’s passionate plea for educating ex-convicts. “No. You irrevocably condemned yourself just now, when you all but admitted you are an imposter. I never once extrapolated on why I am suspicious. A normal official would assume I am accusing him of either corruption or abuse of power. You, on the other hand, immediately jumped to the conclusion that I accuse you of assuming a false identity.”

“Ah!” Valjean shook his head. “Whatever people may say about you, Inspector, there is no man in all of France better at your job.” He added, in a hushed tone that sent shivers down Javert’s spine, “ _Mon cogne_ , _vous colombez tout_.”

Javert forced a cough in order to regain his composure. “Reverting back to the language of a convict, Monsieur le Maire?”

At the use of his title, Valjean beamed. Tried as he may, Javert couldn’t help but stare a little.

When he spoke again, Valjean’s voice was earnest and his eyes sincere. “I am both, Javert,” he said. “In time, I hope you will come to understand. I am both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I took some argot from the Brick to use as Jean Valjean's convict-speak:  
>  _raille_ = spy or police  
>  _cab_ = dog  
>  _Mon cogne, vous colombez tout._ = My copper, you know everything.
> 
> And a pretty obvious expression:  
>  _Vous êtes impossible, Javert!_ = Javert, you're impossible!
> 
> 2\. No, everything is not going to be sunshine and rainbows from this point on. Both Valjean and Javert will have to deal with the aftermaths of what just happened. So there'll be more conversations and confrontations to come...
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments/thoughts/kudos are much appreciated.


	8. Abide with Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean Valjean and Javert ponder the true meaning of their agreement; the Doctor and Clara have a much needed post-Tranzalore talk.

A truce, even when offered and accepted, was just a truce. Decades-long animosity, complicated by shifting contexts of one having power over another, could not disappear with a mere agreement. So when the convict’s smile faded and the inspector’s wonder was suppressed by his sense of duty, the two men found themselves awkwardly avoiding each other, unsure of what temporary peace should look like.

Thus both men, each lost in his own thoughts, failed to recognize that the torment roiling within himself was mirrored inside the other.

-

Jean Valjean sought solace in the chapel, his safe house of bronze crucifix and warm candles. It was the Bishop who first led him to the cross, but once he stepped over the threshold into faith, it was Christ and his commands that Valjean sought to follow.

Belief was easy when life was good. It was by no means free of hardships, no. Those early years, when he possessed only the Bishop’s candlesticks but no identity… it was a time of fear and hunger despite money in his hands. But he had taken those hardships in stride, for life had opened up a path full of promises for him, a path that continually lifted him up. Almighty God, ever faithful, had delivered promise after promise: a new beginning as Madeleine, success at business, acceptance by society, enough resources to bring about the flourishing of Montreuil-sur-Mer, and, however reluctant he felt about it, political influence.

But today, the words swirling in his head had nothing to do with God’s blessings or gifts: _If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me_.

To follow Christ was a call to die.

The interchange he had with Javert may well have been his death sentence. Justice delayed did not mean justice forgotten—never for the inspector. Valjean would remain a free man only for as long as this adventure lasted. Whatever Javert’s opinion of Madeleine the Mayor, he, Jean Valjean the thief and parole breaker, would be brought to justice.

At the thought of justice, Valjean saw nothing but hell.

There was a place that haunted his dreams even more than the _bagne_. A windowless cellar, the basement of the _Châtlet de Paris_ , a storing house for condemned convicts before they were herded off to Toulon. In this place of perpetual darkness, souls shriveled and what hope still existed inside men’s hearts was extinguished. The stench of death permeated the dungeon, overpowering even the mud floor reeking of piss and human waste. And death would have been welcomed; Valjean had envied those who collapsed while dangling from their chains and never woke again.

As a freed man, Valjean had screamed himself awake many a night, hands clawing at his neck to free the iron that choked him to the point of suffocation. In reality, he was never able to test the strength of his neck iron during the few weeks he had spent there. His hands were suspended helplessly from chains tied to the ceiling beam, strained and weakened to the point where he could scarcely keep a meager loaf of bread, his sole meal each day, from falling out of his spasming hands.

In this place, Jean Valjean had learned first despair, then numbness. Convicts entered the cellar as pitiful humans; they exited as soulless beasts.

He looked to the cross at the front of the chapel. Why would a loving God allow him to return to this hell of endless torture and pain?

 _Jean-le-Cric_ revolted then, a rush of anger full of betrayal and despair. No, he would not return to the cellar or the galleys! He would fight, every step of the way against his descent back to the places of his nightmares, until there was no more strength or breath left in him. His twenty-seven-year-old self had not known to be violent. Knowing what he did now, of the horrors that would await him, he would rather die in the midst of resisting arrest than be hauled off to utter darkness again.

What had the truce bought him? Two days? Three Days? Empty promises of freedom when a cosmic neck iron was waiting for him as soon as he set foot back on Earth. Despite what the citizens of Montreuil-sur-Mer thought of him, he was no saint and would not meekly submit to his demise. No, in this, he had no desire to imitate the suffering of his Christ. He’d dreamt of a lifetime of freedom before him as M. Madeleine. He would have this dream still, if Javert hadn’t come along.

Javert…

He must see to it that his pursuer failed to make it back to Montreuil-sur-Mer. Inspector Javert could find a fulfilling life here, securing employment under the Police Chief. It would be a good life, a new beginning, no longer needing to prove himself simply because he was born in the gutters. And if he wasn’t willing, _Jean-le-Cric_ , snarled, then Javert must be rendered incapable of returning –

_Jean._

He started. The sound was almost audible. But the only sound around him was the hum of the TARDIS, ever present but never recognizable as human words.

_Jean._

No, this was coming from somewhere else. Somewhere _within_. A voice at once familiar but distinct from the torrents of his thoughts. A gentle voice, yet impressed on his mind with such authority that Valjean knew whatever it would call him to do, a response was required.

He whispered, “Is it you, Lord?”

_If any man will come after me, let him deny himself._

His blood ran cold. How could he honor God as Lord with his lips, yet contemplate an act of crime in his heart? He was ready to exile a man into space—or commit worse—simply because he wanted to protect himself. He had grown comfortable with the pleasures of the world and had held them above the Giver of those pleasures, to the point of wronging another human being.

And yet…

“Why,” he shouted, all _Jean-le-Cric_ and not one shred of Madeleine. “Why should I? Why should I let everything I have achieved crumble into dust?”

_Let him take up his cross daily._

Daily? Every single day of his remaining life, chained and shackled to the galleys? Or would it be death, a convict arrested not only for breaking parole but for committing two acts of theft, despite the Bishop having forgiven him and his genuine effort in trying to return the silver to the boy?

“What do you know about the galleys,” he spat. “Where were you when I was there, when I suffered for nineteen long years?”

Images flashed before his eyes: Prison guards striking him with their sticks. Nights spent in vain supplication to God, not because he believed anyone would hear, but because his hatred was so great that he needed to spit his venom into the face of something, some _one_. Whips drawing lines of blood on his back, the horror of each blow magnified by the unadulterated glee in his punisher’s eyes. Shackled in double chains, the punishment for every time he was caught escaping.

But there were also the friars at Toulon who taught him how to read and write, who, for one hour a week, treated him in a way that reminded him he was human… the self-righteous fury inside him shattered. Who was he to question God’s will? If he hadn’t suffered in the galleys, if the deplorable conditions hadn’t rendered him no better than a beast who would steal from the very Bishop who blessed him, if he hadn’t experienced the Bishop’s forgiveness, then where would he be instead? A wretch who would still be an enemy of God.

_Follow me._

He couldn’t stop his body from trembling. The voice seemed to be saying, “Trust me. I’ve led you all along, even through your deepest sufferings.” Valjean had trusted once, when he was a pruner in Faverolles, destitute and starving but nonetheless surrounded by a family he loved. Madeleine had faith, but in all the years he had refrained from extending trust to anyone. And now this voice was asking him to follow solely on trust, to continue on the path of straight and narrow even though the future was bleak and no longer filled with promises.

“I am, Lord,” he pleaded. “I have been following you…”

_Then deny yourself._

He forced down the bile rising from his stomach even as dread overtook his senses. To resign himself to his fate was never something he’d had to accept until now. Logic told him it was a matter of time before Javert would see through his façade. But he’d always run. At Montreuil-sur-Mer, he would flee, he would take refuge in the night and loose himself during the chase. Here, he could see Javert standing by the TARDIS door at the conclusion of their trip, manacle in hand, waiting for him to exit. One step over the threshold, and Madeleine the time traveler would be reduced to Valjean the convict.

What if he stayed in New New York instead? Javert had no authority in this city and surely even the Doctor couldn’t force him to return to Montreuil-sur-Mer. He would deny himself of the chance of ever returning to his own planet, his own time. Would this not be sacrifice enough?

_Take up your cross._

Of course not. He would be running away, just as he’d been doing all these years. He would still be refusing to bear his own cross, to submit to the consequences of his sins. If he continued to claim the Bishop’s God as his own, then exiling himself was not an option.

“I’ll take up anything, just not the galleys, please not the galleys…”

_Follow me._

“I do… just don’t lead me to the galleys, not there, not again.”

_Follow me._

“I won’t harm Javert, I promise! Forgive me, it was my old self talking!”

_Follow me._

The voice was relentless. If there was an edge of hysteria in Valjean’s own voice, in his desperate pleas, it was because he knew how futile this was all going to be—this attempt to assert his own will against a God who had loved him for so many years. After all, he wasn’t being asked to do what hadn’t already been done for him. The God of the Bishop, _his_ God, had once denied himself and taken up the cross in order to pursue after a galley slave.

“I’ve built a new life, a good one. Why did you bless me if that’s not the path you have for me?”

_Follow me._

What would the future hold instead? Death and slavery? Must he walk through these deep valleys in order to attain salvation?

“Where, Lord?” His voice was hoarse from straining. “Where?”

_Follow me._

“I want to…” But he was afraid.

_Follow me._

He should. He must. And—he knew it, deep inside—he _could_. Fear was not an excuse. And turning his back from the grace of God was not an option he was willing to consider.

_Follow me._

The voice remained gentle, compelling.

He closed his eyes, letting the moisture collecting at the rims spill down his face. _Yes_ , his heart responded, and at once the sense of dread weighing upon his body lifted. Immense, indescribable peace flooded him. _Yes_.

And so, humbled and embracing surrender, Jean Valjean committed his soul to the only one who could guide him through the fires and storms.

“Your will be done, whatever it may be. Your will be done.”

-

Javert was distracting himself in the game room, having found a chess board that allowed him to play against an automatically programmed foe. He had won the first three games easily, starting with Level 1 and adjusting the setting to Level 3. Prior to the fourth game, he skipped ahead to Level 8. The computer player was now a tolerable opponent, not so pathetically beatable but undemanding enough to allow his thoughts to wander.

That one moment of Valjean, beaming at him, burned in his mind. Valjean had worn a wide grin, bigger than any he had seen on Madeleine’s face, and infinitely more genuine and unguarded. There was sadness in those eyes, a steady presence that Javert had come to accept as part of Madeleine (was it only Madeleine?). But there was so much more. Javert may have detected relief, a fugitive who no longer needed to hide; surprise, a pleasant one, not like the wide-eyed shock that many of his victims had directed his way before he would close in on them; esteem, that damnable approval that Javert the subordinate still sought from Monsieur le Maire for a job well done; and warmth, always warmth. That was another ever present sentiment in Madeleine’s (or was it Valjean’s?) eyes.

He was being selfish when he offered the truce. They were in a time machine, for heaven’s sake. Javert could have demanded the Doctor to take them both back to Montreuil-sur-Mer—he as the captor and Valjean his prisoner. He could have taken care of this matter quickly and, if the Doctor would permit, rejoined the investigation without skipping one second in New New York’s time. He could have even done it now, trying his hand at piloting the TARDIS, as reckless as it would have been. But a truce? What was he hoping to accomplish—buy two days’ time? Three?

He moved a pawn to capture the computer’s knight. Really, this was too easy.

If he were honest (and he was always honest, especially to himself), Javert would admit that he wanted to know what the convict at Toulon had become, whether he really had changed. Madeleine was compelling, and if Madeleine was not a complete lie, then Jean Valjean should be equally compelling. The truce was nothing more than an indulgent move to satisfy a curiosity. By establishing peace, he had created a space for Valjean to be himself. Could a criminal change? Valjean would be Javert’s experiment.

He did not ponder what would happen afterwards, he must not. There was nothing to consider, really, genuine repentance or not. Valjean was wanted by the law and Javert would arrest him. It will happen at the conclusion of their travels, when they would both return to Montreuil-sur-Mer. He may be willing to grant Valjean time to transfer his unfinished matters to his successors and even agree to handle the arrest quietly to spare him public humiliation. But the law must be upheld, and Valjean was a lawbreaker.

What emotions would those eyes hold then, when he fastened his manacles around Valjean’s wrists?

The computer advanced its bishop to a position that threatened Javert’s queen. He moved a pawn to block the line of attack.

It all came down to the concept of sacrifice. If the computer was dim enough to take his pawn, then Javert would have his knight ready to pounce on the same square in his next move. But without luring his victim with a bait, the capture wouldn’t happen.

Was this what he was doing to Valjean, luring him with a truce while all along he had planned to hone in for a kill?

Valjean is a thief, he reminded himself. A hypocrite.

 _And who are you?_ The same voice piped up.

A vengeful spy who would steal away Montreuil-sur-Mer’s prosperity with the snap of a cuff. A willfully blind man who refused to see that Valjean’s recapture, given the length of time he was on the run and the added guilt of assuming an identity of a magistrate, would very likely result in a death sentence. He had Valjean’s life in his grip. And he took the liberty to manipulate this life, drawing trust from him, bringing a smile to his face.

His knight faltered, blindsided by the computer’s rook, avenging the capture of its fellow bishop.

Was this how law and justice operated, a never ending cycle of payment and revenge? If it all started, as he had read from Valjean’s file, with the theft of a loaf of bread, then how did it escalate through the intervening years to a possible death sentence? Yes, there were the further thefts that proved Valjean’s continued depravity, but why was payment demanded of Valjean from the justice system, and not by the ones he had robbed? What was the limit of the Law’s power, what boundaries were there to prevent justice from overreaching into vengeance?

Javert moved his queen. Checkmate. The computer flashed a colorful congratulatory note with accompanying noises.

The victory felt hollow. Given the mismatched skills level, the computer never had a fair chance; Javert had had the upper hand all along. He shut off the chess game and exited the game room.

-

Clara was grateful for her foresight at taking the car keys from Chief Hargrave’s hand before the Doctor could claim them. Seeing how the Time Lord was behaving next to her—lower body planted in the passenger seat while his upper torso was twisted toward the side window, rebelling against an incorrectly buckled seat belt as he waved his hands about in attempt to catch the attention of drivers in every passing car—she knew they wouldn’t have made it half a mile without the Doctor crashing their air car if their roles were reversed.

“Doctor,” Clara yelled over the Doctor’s _Hellloooo_ to the car beside them. “Doctor!”

“Oi, I was just saying hello!”

“The map. You’re supposed to navigate. Where are we going next?”

“Left, at the next intersection. No, wait, the other left. Turn right!”

Clara slowed the car as she approached a traffic light. “Left or right, Doctor? I can’t do both.”

“Sorry,” the Doctor mumbled, which sounded more like a complaint than an apology. “Here, see where my finger is pointing at? Right. Make a right here and travel straight for two miles, then stop at the intersection between New Broome Street and New Avenue D.”

Clara made the turn and, for a minute or so, they traveled in silence. Gradually, she lowered the car’s altitude until she was piloting it just above the ground. They were entering a working class district, she could tell. The scenery consisted of tenement buildings and run-down light manufacturing plants. They passed a school.

“Do you like traveling with me, Clara?”

The question caught her by surprise. The way the Doctor had asked it, he sounded almost… uncertain. Shouldn’t she be the one asking the question, as the latest addition to a string of the Doctor’s past traveling companions?

“Of course I do. Why?”

His voice was sober, lacking the manic cheeriness that he usually projected to the world. “You died, tens and maybe hundreds of times, all because of me.”

“I don’t really remember my other lives, certainly not all the deaths.” The odometer indicated they had reached two miles. Spotting an open parking spot, Clara maneuvered their car in between two other parked cars. Parallel parking was so much easier when one could hover the vehicle right above the open spot and simply descend into it.

They got out of the car. “Why do you ask?”

Instead of answering, the Doctor took out his sonic screwdriver and scanned it around the area where Hargrave’s map had indicated as one of the most recent sites for an abduction. When the sonic was done, he peered at the collected data in satisfaction. “There. Ten rift energy readings at ten locations. That should be a big enough sample size.”

“Great. We should get back, our guests will be waiting.”

The Doctor waved his hand. “Oh, they have plenty of personal issues to sort out. Haven’t you noticed? They’re both so cagey around each other.”

“Well I wouldn’t feel too comfortable traveling with my boss either, poor inspector.”

“Not poor Madeleine?” the Doctor teased. “You two seem to get along rather well.”

“Anyone would get along with him. He’s so nice!”

The Doctor brought a hand to his chin. “There’s something about him, that Madeleine. I just haven’t figured it out yet. Just be careful, Clara.”

Clara was about to argue, but she knew she couldn’t say much without revealing Madeleine’s past. There was no way she was going to betray the gentleman’s confidence. So she followed the Doctor back to their car.

As they drove back to the police station, the golden sun of New New York turned a stunning orange in the pre-evening sky. Far away, a clock tower struck six. The echo of the sixth strike had not yet fully dissipated when the sound of the people’s evening hymn started to fill the air:

_Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;_  
_The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;_  
_When other helpers fail and comforts flee;_  
_Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me._

In the car, the Doctor spoke into the song. “I’ve lost you too many times, I don’t want to ever lose you again,” he said, finding words to answer Clara’s earlier question. “This time, there are three of you I must protect. And who knows how many more New New Yorkers, if my suspicion is correct, if the rift plays a much bigger role in this whole mystery...

“I hope it won’t come to this, but Clara, if I have to choose, if it’s you or the planet, or Madeleine or the planet, Javert or the planet… how will I ever be able to live with my decision? I’m not everyone’s savior. I can’t be. I’d keep you all in the TARDIS, ask you to stay out of this one if I can. But even inside the TARDIS the rift can still reach you. No one’s safe, but more than anything I’m afraid of losing you. Again.”

Clara listened as she drove, willing the song to soothe the Doctor’s fears. If this was what passed through the Doctor’s mind all the time, how could he possibly bear it? Clara had seen death in her many lives, had seen the Doctor lose his friends, including her own selves, even as he fought hard to preserve the lives of others. She turned her head and saw the face of a great man, of someone who saved and protected. But she wasn’t so sure that if the Doctor looked into a mirror, he would see beyond someone who failed to save others.

Slowly, the Doctor opened up. He recounted how he had met and lost Oswin, how he then met and lost Clara in Victorian England; how heartbroken he was each time. His words blended into the music. _Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;/_ _Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away;/_ _Change and decay in all around I see;_ / _O thou who changest not, abide with me._

Clara was here beside him, and that would have to be enough for now.

-

Jean Valjean was standing at the door of the TARDIS, worshipping with the New New Yorkers even though he was not familiar with the evening hymn they sang.

“Should we search for the Doctor?” Javert’s voice came up from behind him. “He’s two hours overdue.”

“Clara is with him. He’ll be okay.”

They listened as the words of the song blended into the dimming sky.

“I…” they both started.

“Sorry. You first, Inspector.”

“No, Valjean, go ahead.”

Jean Valjean's lips curved into a smile. This was the first time Javert said his name without malice or trying to goad him into compromising himself. It felt significant somehow.

“I want to apologize for…” He searched for the right words. “For having uncharitable thoughts toward you. Moments ago, when I was in the chapel.”

Javert cast a questioning gaze.

“I wanted to harm you. I wanted to see to it that you never make it back to Montreuil-sur-Mer,” he admitted.

For several minutes, neither man said a word. The citizens started the fourth verse.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it’s wrong. Because the Lord says that if my brother has anything against me, I should first seek reconciliation before offering at God’s altar.”

“And so you feel the need to confess your murderous thoughts just so you can partake in the singing of a song.” Javert’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but it contained no malice.

“I wasn’t exactly pondering murder.” _Not yet_ , Valjean’s inner voice supplied. He was grateful that his earlier thoughts were halted when they did, before they degenerated into unsalvageable wickedness.

“Of course not, you’d be on your hands and knees if that was the case.” Javert shot Valjean a sideway glare. “And since when have you christened us brothers?”

“You follow the path of the Lord, do you not?”

Javert grimaced. “I suppose.” After some time, he added, “I am perfectly capable of defending myself, you know.”

“I don’t doubt that. And I no longer intend to find out.”

The twilight still illuminated the sky, so the New New Yorkers repeated the song to continue their sendoff to the sun. In the fading light, Valjean could see Javert first deep in thoughts, then coming to a decision as he steeled himself to speak.

“I have decided to trust you,” he announced.

Valjean waited for further explanation, but as silence stretched between them, he realized that was all Javert had intended to say.

“Is that all, Javert? You’re leaving me hanging here.”

Javert huffed. “Unlike you, I don’t disclose my thoughts to the world.”

“Mmm.” Valjean did not pretend to understand the inner workings of the inspector’s mind. Whatever paths of reasoning that led Javert to the conclusion, he was glad with the result.

“Is reciprocity required, Inspector? Would you accept the trust of a convict?”

Warring emotions flashed across Javert’s face, and Valjean’s heart sank a little at the realization that he was still very much a condemned man in the inspector’s eyes. Javert was merely trying to tolerate him out of duty or necessity, or both, while they were away from home.

“Here you are not a convict,” Javert said through gritted teeth, a growl.

So this was the true manner of things: even the proffered trust was intended to be temporary. Valjean resigned himself to what he could not change. He would make the best of this small measure of reprieve granted him.

“Thank you.” He smiled. “And perhaps here, we can be friends?”

Javert looked like he had just bitten into a particularly sour fruit. “Don’t push your luck, Valjean,” he warned.

Jean Valjean laughed.

In the distance, they saw a car flying toward the TARDIS, revealing the Doctor and Clara as the vehicle approached. Javert straightened his back and Valjean let his laughter linger in his eyes. Madeleine was back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [The New New Yorkers sing "Abide with Me"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8agYk3Jv4c) in the Doctor Who season 3 episode _Gridlock_.
> 
> 2\. Since this adventure takes place right after the Doctor and Clara's first trip to Tranzalore, I feel the two need to process the fact that (*spoilers for Season 7 Episode 13 -- The Name of the Doctor*) Clara had just split herself into hundreds of selves and scattered them all throughout the Doctor’s eleven lives. This is my attempt at a fix-it to rebel against the idea that, no, they’re not just going to be magically okay after that experience and go on happily adventuring together.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, I welcome your thoughts and feedback. I'm working on the next chapter. Our heroes are ready to crack the mystery. I hope to update soon.


	9. Piecing It All Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the TARDIS, the team uncovers key clues to the mystery. But as they move forward to solve the case, the unexpected happens...

Reconvened back in the TARDIS, the four travelers sat around a table, four plates of fish fingers and a bowl of custard cluttered among markers and papers, in a conference room that had appeared on a side corridor that the Doctor had sworn he’d lost. Out in the main console room, the TARDIS was running millions of calculations to assess the rift energy levels throughout New New York, trying to predict where the next abduction might take place.

“We’ll soon have results from the TARDIS’s calculation. Adding that to what we already know, we’ll have a pretty good picture of what’s going on.” The Doctor strode up to a white board on the wall and wrote _Who, What, Where, When, Why,_ and _How_ in large letters. “Basic elements to every case. Who: the bad guys. We’ll meet them soon enough. What: the abductions. Where and when: the TARDIS will tell us when she’s done calculating. How: using the rift. So –” He drew a circle around the remaining word. “Why. We still don’t know why. We have between now and the next rift opening to figure it out.”

“Do you have an idea, Doctor?” Clara asked.

The Doctor returned to his seat around the table. “I have half an idea. The danger was foretold by the glowing of the Face of Boe’s tentacle. Or rather, the glow marked the beginning of trouble. You remember Captain Jack Harkness, Clara.”

“Vaguely. He traveled with you in your tenth self. Handsome, American bloke. Can’t die. Leader of Torchwood Three?”

“Yes, that’s him. Gentlemen –” He turned to Madeleine and Javert. “All you need to know is that when Jack was alive, he lived and breathed rift energy. And yes, I said when he _was_ alive. I’ve no idea how, but in his old age he became the Face of Boe. Kept the city alive until he saved the likes of Brannigans and Laftners with his final breath and died for the last time.

“He left a piece of himself with Novice Hame, which means he must know there’ll be trouble ahead, and that it’ll involve the rift. The preserved tentacle glowed not because of some magic or witchcraft, but because even in death, he was reacting to a spike in rift energy.

“So I’ll adjust my answer to the _Who_. It’s not just the bad guys, but bad guys who wanted some kind of revenge on Jack. They found his planet, saw that he was dead, and attacked the city anyway. So there’s at least half our _Why_.”

“Can you draw up a list of suspects based on your acquaintance with the Captain?” Javert asked.

The Doctor shook his head. “See, here’s the problem with someone like Jack. Saying the mastermind behind the abductions is an enemy of Jack’s honestly doesn’t tell us much. He’s made too many enemies over the years in all of time and space.”

“So we’re back to where we began,” Javert said.

“Not exactly.” The Doctor took out his sonic screwdriver and waved it about. “Because of Jack, I figured out right away that our mystery is related to the rift. I got some pretty good readings. If I catch an abduction in progress, I might even be able to trace where all those people were taken to.”

“So they’re alive?” Clara’s voice was excited, hopeful.

“They would have to be, after someone spends so much time and effort of what amounts to taking hostages,” the Doctor said. “And speaking of those people. I still can’t figure out how they are related. It can’t simply be random except for no children.”

“We can isolate the most likely characteristics from Hargrave’s presentation,” Javert said, recalling the charts and graphs of the many demographic attributes. “Most are poor, many are of immigrant background, and three quarters of those who were abducted have a criminal record.”

“Yes, but even one counterexample would ruin any theory that these characteristics support.” The Doctor frowned. “And it’s not like we can just say ‘random, but not really’ as what triggers the abductions.”

At this moment, Madeleine cut in. “Let’s bring our findings together, perhaps they will reveal the truth to us. I can start. After our lunch, I accompanied Messieurs Laftner and Tau to their offices. Both were in high spirits from wine and pleasant company, which I believe had loosened their tongues quite a bit. I asked them about the city’s budget and learned this:

“One year ago, an anonymous benefactor contacted the Senate with a proposal. The benefactor offered to donate five billion New Dollars to the city’s General Fund each year beginning with the first month of the current fiscal year. When the Senators asked the donor why he was willing to contribute such a large sum, he merely pointed to his love for New New York and his desire to see it flourish.”

“That’s a rubbish reason!” the Doctor protested.

“Yes, but my sarcasm at saying as much was lost to my intoxicated friends.” The amusement on Madeleine’s face gave way to knitted brows. “Tried as I did, I couldn’t pry the identity of the mysterious donor from either Senator. I am willing to believe that even they don’t know. The Senate wasn’t asked to provide any favor in return. They were only too happy to accept the contribution. I learned that New New York’s operating budget is projected to have a surplus of three billion this fiscal year, which means without the benefactor’s support, the city was heading toward a deficit.”

“A two billion deficit would have been astronomical! No wonder Tau kept on harping about having no money.” The Doctor paused. From the way his eyes were focused and his brows knitted in concentration, one could almost see the million thoughts running through his head. “If I’m piecing everything together correctly, then my only question is why can’t the Senate see the truth.”

“The truth? What truth?” Clara asked.

Beside her, understanding dawned on Javert’s face, half a beat behind the Doctor. “The anonymous contribution. It is payment for the abductions.”

“Exactly!” the Doctor said. He picked up the marker and wrote _Revenge on Jack Harkness_ and _Payment for Abduction_ under the Why. “Knowing what we do now, anybody should be able to make the connection. So the only logical conclusion is, the Senate doesn’t want to see it. They refuse to see the truth.”

“Could they be pretending, though, Doctor?” Clara shuddered. “The Senators seem to be such nice people…”

“That’s unlikely, Mademoiselle,” Javert said. “For them to be willing co-conspirators, the Senators must be able to control the bargain. As far as we know, the abductions occur at random. I looked through all of Hargrave’s recent files. He didn’t hide anything in his presentation. The police has not yet been able to determine a pattern.”

“What else did you find, Inspector?” Madeleine asked. He gave Javert a knowing look, a smile in his eyes. “I know nothing escapes you. You’re excellent at prying people’s secrets.”

Javert bristled at the veiled compliment, but nonetheless complied as he spoke with the practiced ease of an inspector giving a police report, “I examined New New York’s criminal records for the past five years. There were a total of 2,181 arrests. Of those, a tenth of the cases were dismissed and eighty percent of the remaining cases were successfully prosecuted by the city, resulting in guilty verdicts. Among those, two-thirds were for minor infractions that carried sentences ranging from fines to prison terms of less than five years. The remaining third were cases of more grievous offenses that sent criminals to prison from five years to life imprisonment. New New York does not condemn criminals to death.

“The number of arrests has gone up in recent years, concentrated in the poorer neighborhoods. Many seem to be immigrants or non-multigenerational New New Yorkers. Prison terms have increased since about three years ago. According to the police clerk, this was the result of the city’s criminal justice policy reform when Hargrave’s predecessor declared an initiative called the War on Crime.

“I discovered one peculiarity: until a year ago, a good number of criminals who had served their sentences would soon reoffend upon their release. They were promptly rearrested and sent back to prison. But for the past twelve months, New New York seemed to have rid itself of the criminal recidivism problem.”

The Doctor cut in, “That was what Laftner was bragging about! He’s proud of New New York having a declining recidivism rate.” At Clara’s raised eyebrows, he objected, “What? I was eating _and_ listening. Don’t tell me you weren’t doing the same thing.”

Javert nodded. “Precisely. But this happened too suddenly. The police clerk attributed this to the success of the War on Crime, but I am doubtful. It was as if all the criminals decided to reform themselves six months ago.”

“So are you saying that this is the pattern we’ve been trying to find, that the rift only takes criminals?” Clara asked. “Because if that’s the case, then it totally makes sense why the Senate would choose to look the other way. Better for them to have fewer criminals on the ground, as wrong as I find this to be.”

“This can’t be,” the Doctor said, but then looked thoughtful for a moment. “Or it can’t be the whole truth. There’s the case of Senator Laftner’s son being taken.”

“And Candace Thorpe,” Madeleine added. “She’s certainly no criminal.”

“She does have a record with the police, for her protest activities,” Javert pointed out. “However, with Samuel Laftner’s exception, it appears our most likely theory is invalidated.”

“I found out more about young Monsieur Laftner’s abduction. Perhaps it is helpful to us yet,” Madeleine said. “After Tau left us to return to his office, Laftner opened up to me. Samuel Laftner was taken from their home. The Senator saw an opening appearing over his son’s head that started to pull him up. He managed to hold onto Samuel’s legs for several minutes, but the rift’s pull grew too forceful.” Madeleine furrowed his brows, remembering the Senator’s stricken look when recounting the horror. “He refused to let go and was dragged toward the rift along with his son. But as soon as Samuel was taken, he said—in these exact words— _the opening didn’t want me and spat me out_.”

“Are you sure Samuel’s name isn’t in the criminal files, Inspector?” the Doctor asked.

Javert shook his head. “No. With that surname, I would have recognized it had I come across his file.”

“Another dead end then! The rift didn’t just take the poor, didn’t just take the criminals, didn’t just take the immigrants, and certainly didn’t take people at random.” The Doctor turned to Clara. “Clara, your turn. What do you have?”

Clara sighed. “A sad story, that’s what I have. I met a little girl while I was wandering about before lunchtime. I asked her where her parents were, and she said, ‘Mum’s gone and I don’t have a dad.’ I asked, ‘What do you mean, gone?’ She said, ‘Last year, we had no money for food so Mum started working at night. Then one day the police showed up and took her away. Then I lived with my brother, and then she came back a few months later. And then I woke up one day and she was gone.’”

The silence was uncomfortable until Javert said what was on everyone’s mind: “Her mother was a prostitute. She was arrested and imprisoned, then taken up by the rift.”

At hearing these words, Madeleine face twisted into a pained expression, punctuated by eyes that seemed to burn with anger. Javert had seen the same face often, when Madeleine would be defending Montreuil-sur-Mer’s poor. A week ago, he would have sneered at the Mayor’s misplaced compassion. But at this moment, he couldn’t muster the same animosity. In fact, even his words lacked the usual derision he was used to hearing.

“There’s more to the story,” Clara continued. “I told the little girl how sorry I was about her mum and that she must be sad, but she said, ‘I’m not allowed to be sad.’ ‘Why?’ I asked her. Then she looked at me with the saddest face in the world. Her eyes were bright with tears but she wouldn’t allow herself to cry. She said, ‘Because right after Mum was gone, then the famous racecar driver was also gone. Brother told me the whole city is supposed to be sad for him, so I’m not allowed to tell anyone I’m sad for Mum.’

“Can’t you see how cruel this is? Just because some reckless racecar driver died, the city was mandated to mourn for him!” Clara took a deep breath to calm herself, though she still fumed from the injustice and was speaking louder, with more defiance in her voice. “I know it won’t help in the long run, but I took the girl to get food and shop for clothes and shoes, charging everything to Novice Hame’s name. I figured she must have a standing account that allows her to bill the city. I got her anything she wanted, and she was so happy.”

“You do the girl a disservice, Mademoiselle,” Javert remarked. “When she returns to the slums with new clothes and shoes, she will become a target for attack.”

“I know. But I also know her brother is many years older and can protect her,” Clara said. “I just can’t let her go on suffering without helping, even if just a bit. Especially since I was in the position to do so.”

“And if her clothes get stolen?”

“Then while we’re still here we can replace them,” Madeleine interjected. “We all know charity won’t solve the world’s problems, but the Lord commands us to care for the poor.”

Javert muttered something about _idiot_ and _hopeless_. Madeleine chose not to listen too closely. “Look, Madeleine, you can take on Montreuil-sur-Mer’s charity cases when we go back, but short of a complete social upheaval, nothing will change New New York –”

Without warning, the Doctor ran up to Clara, pulled her out of her chair, and gave her a hug that was definitely not intended to offer sympathy or soothe her sorrow. When Clara pulled away, the Doctor was almost bouncing with excitement, a huge grin on his face.

“Clara Oswald, you’re brilliant! Gentlemen, I believe we have the final piece of the puzzle to solve our mystery, all thanks to Clara!” He once again picked up the marker, freed it from its cap, and set to write down his discovery on the board.

Just then, outside in the console room, the TARDIS timer sounded a _ding_. “Oh, the Old Girl is done! I’ll be back…” The Doctor dropped the marker and, in one smooth movement, opened the door, sprinted out, and closed the door behind him.

Clara was unfazed. “He does that,” she supplied helpfully.

Sitting in his chair, Madeleine paid little attention to what just transpired. Javert’s words rang loudly in his ears: _you can take on Montreuil-sur-Mer’s charity cases when we go back_. No talk of denouncing him back to Toulon. Javert was obviously playing along at pretending Valjean was Madeleine. But could this be more than a spy maintaining his cover?

Had he changed his mind? Valjean cast a glance at Javert, who was sitting stone still, his face inscrutable.

Dare he hope?

-

Clara, Madeleine, and Javert found themselves squeezed into the air car that Hargrave provided. The Doctor was in the driver’s seat, insisting that he should be the one to race them to where the TARDIS predicted the next abduction would take place. Judging by the looks of his passengers, the unstable, wobbly, and aggressive weaving of the car in and out of the evening rush-hour traffic was not appreciated and left much to be desired.

 _There’s no time to explain_ , the Doctor had said. _Trust me. I’ve got everything figured out. There is a trend and I know how to use the rift energy to get us to the other side._

This next abduction was happening in less than fifteen minutes and two neighborhoods away. The Doctor asked Clara to take out the flashlights that Hargrave had provided, open their respective nuclear energy compartments, and use his sonic screwdriver on each compartment for ten seconds. She was then to give out a flashlight to everyone.

“Can’t you at least give us a clue, anything?” Clara shouted while fumbling to close up the compartment cover for the last flashlight, straining her voice against the honks and beeps blaring around them that were all directed their way.

“When we get there, I need you to stay away from me,” the Doctor shouted back. “I have to get close to the rift to scan for more readings. Javert, hold onto the victim. Don’t let the rift complete the abduction. Madeleine, use your flashlight. Trust me and don’t forget the flashlight.

“Here we go, we’re landing!” The car took a nosedive toward the street, earning yet more angry horns from nearby drivers. It screeched to a halt next to a middle-aged cat-man whose secretive posture told Javert right away that he was engaged in the selling and buying of contraband substances.

“Hello there,” the Doctor said as he got out of the car. “I’m the Doctor and these are my friends. I’ll have one of each, please.”

The cat-man’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t deal with the police.”

“We’re not the police,” the Doctor protested. The cat-man pointed to the license plate of their car. Inscribed on it was the symbol of New New York’s police station. “Oh. Well, we sort of borrowed it. Look, we don’t really want anything. I was just making conversation.”

The cat-man’s tail was thrashing back and forth. A matching agitation creased the lines on his face. “Go away,” he hissed.

The Doctor held up his hands. “I will, just give me one minute. Or not even. Anytime now…”

As if on cue, the air right above the cat-man’s head suddenly became charged with sparks of blue. Each tiny jolt of light was accompanied by the _bzzzt_ of the electricity’s sound, until the cloud of sparks parted away and what looked like a tear in the sky opened to reveal a dark void beyond. The rift grew bigger until it was as long as the cat-man’s height. The cat-man miaowed something undignified as he tried to move away from under the rift, but wherever he turned, the rift followed him.

“Now!” the Doctor yelled, running forward and pointing his sonic screwdriver directly at the rift. Javert was by the cat-man’s side in a flash while both Clara and Madeleine stayed close to the car, flashlight in hand, awaiting further instructions.

And then it began. The cat-man’s fur and whiskers were the first to stand on their ends, then his clothes, and eventually the rest of the cat followed. Gradually, he became airborne, and would have been swallowed by the rift had Javert not held him firmly around the waist.

“Close the rift!” Javert barked at the Doctor. “The pull’s getting stronger. I can’t hold him down for long!”

“I can’t, the reading’s not done yet! I need a couple more minutes. Drag him in the opposite direction, away from us.”

“Doctor, what can we do?” Clara shouted.

“Clara, just –” He glanced at where the voice came from, seeing his two other companions standing together. “You know what, come over here. I need you to switch the sonic’s setting to calculations while I hold it.”

A strong wind was now whipping about, striking all of their faces with bits of dust and stone lifted from the ground. For several seconds, the rift stopped chasing its target and started to grow bigger. Javert took the opportunity to drag the cat-man further away. Terrified, the would-be victim didn’t protest.

And then the rift started to make its way toward the Doctor. As it neared, the bottom of the Doctor’s tweed jacket began to flap up and down, and his already messy hair was pulled each strand on its end. Clara’s clothes were unaffected.

He shoved his screwdriver into Clara’s hand. “Just in case,” he said. “Stand here and don’t move, but keep pointing the sonic at the rift. I need about one more minute of reading. Then click here –” He indicated a switch. “– to activate the calculations setting.”

The Doctor turned to Madeleine. “Flashlight! Turn it on. And keep it on.”

As Madeleine did so, the rift changed direction again, this time aiming for the mayor. The Doctor’s clothing returned to its unruffled state.

Just like it did with the cat-man, no matter which direction Madeleine turned to, the opening in the sky followed. “Remember, flashlight on,” the Doctor shouted. “Just trust me!”

“Madeleine!” Clara shrieked. “Help him, Doctor! Inspector! Somebody, help him!”

It was Javert who managed to grip Madeleine’s right leg as the rift began to draw him up. “Ten more seconds,” the Doctor said, more to himself than to anyone around him. “Come on, just ten more seconds.”

The sonic screwdriver beeped. Clara clicked the calculations setting and pushed it back into the Doctor’s hands. “There, the screwdriver’s done. Doctor, close the rift now!” When the Doctor didn’t move, she pleaded, “Hurry! The inspector can’t hold on too much longer!”

The Doctor turned toward Clara, careful to block out the sight of Madeleine and Javert with his back. “I can’t,” he said, quiet enough so that only Clara could hear. “Only a rift manipulator can do that, and I haven’t seen one of those since Jack’s Torchwood days.”

“Then how do we close it? What can we do –”

The Doctor leaned close. “Clara, listen to me. Remember what I said about sacrificing one person for the sake of the planet? About how impossible that choice would feel to me?” He looked over to Javert’s losing battle with keeping Madeleine connected to the ground. “I lied, Clara. We aren’t here to prevent an abduction. We’re here to make sure we get what we need to go into the rift. And right now, the rift won’t close until it takes someone.”

“Madeleine…”

A dark cloud brewed on the Doctor’s face, a sight that Clara had learned to understand that he was about to commit something unspeakable. “It was either him or me, and I need me here. I’m sorry. I’ll do all I can to save him on the other side.”

-

The sky cleared and the air grew calm, erasing all signs that something terrible had just happened. The cat-man was long gone. The Doctor, Clara, and Javert stood like ghosts near the car. No one said a word.

Finally, after the sky had fallen utterly dark, the Doctor opened a car door. “We need to get back to the TARDIS.”

They drove back in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, that was mean of me. But do not despair! There's a point to all this, I promise :-p
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, comments and feedback are much appreciated.


	10. And then there were three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor always has a reason for doing things, but that doesn't mean his companions agree with him. In fact, Javert is decidedly Not Happy.

Not one second after Javert followed Clara and the Doctor back into the TARDIS, he slammed the door shut, grabbed the Doctor by the collar, and shoved him against a wall. The clang of the car keys falling to the ground registered as a distant sound in his ears.

“Explain,” he snarled, angry lips baring both gum and teeth. “And not one lie. Or you’ll be very sorry.”

His knuckles dug into warm skin and stubbles. The Doctor’s pulse, already quicker than a normal person’s, strained impossibly faster against the weight that seemed to pin him to the wall only by the neck. Javert ignored the choking noises sputtering forth from a throat that tried to form words still—not honest words or the confession that Javert had demanded, but the honeyed poison of a trickster. Lies and half-truths were the Doctor’s weapons, promising the universe to wide-eyed innocents only to steal their souls in the end. Javert had always been skilled at disarming his opponents.

The Doctor darted his eyes toward Clara, a desperate plea, a voiceless call for help. Clara stood, arms crossed, impassive. She searched Javert’s eyes for assurance that he would not deal irreparable damage to the Doctor. Javert granted her request, dipping his head almost imperceptibly. Satisfied, Clara turned and walked up the stairs.

Alone with Javert, the Doctor was now completely at the inspector’s mercy.

“He’s… he’s still a-alive…” the Doctor choked out. His face had taken on a scarlet flush. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead.

Javert fisted the Doctor harder, raising him up and forcing his head back against the wall. The Doctor’s legs flailed about, not gaining enough purchase to push himself upright or to deliver any well-aimed kicks. The hands scratching at Javert’s arm managed only to be a negligible annoyance.

“We’re not here to talk about Madeleine, but _you_. Doctor –” He spat the name out like sour milk. “What are you? A liar? A traitor? A murderer?”

The Doctor’s eyes were bulging. And still he tried to talk.

“I-I don’t oper… ate by c-categories –”

“Ah, all of the above then, I see.” Javert murmured, as if adding an afterthought, “This explains why the rift wanted you.”

He loosened his grip just enough so the Doctor could regain his breath. In all his years of conducting interrogations, he knew that only by applying a mixture of pushing and pulling would an offender be melded into a willing confessor (some of his colleagues preferred torture; Javert had always held a particular disdain for such cruelty). This process could take hours or days. He did not know how many layers he must peel away from the Doctor until he would uncover the true nature of the Time Lord. They were in a time machine. He had the patience and the time.

He leaned close. “We will play a game,” he said, his breath hot against the Doctor. “I ask a question, you give an answer. In exchange, I will settle you in a more comfortable position. Agree?”

The Doctor nodded.

“Are you truly a Time Lord?”

A nod.

“The TARDIS. Is it stolen?” The Doctor made to speak. Javert dug his hand deeper, cutting off both air and words. “No excuses! Yes or no?”

The Doctor went still. For a split second, Javert wasn’t sure if he would receive an answer. He wondered how long Time Lords can hold their breath.

Then finally, with the slightest movement but with what seemed to have taken enormous efforts, the Doctor nodded. An honest answer, then. Javert rewarded him by releasing some pressure from his hold.

“So you are a fugitive from the law.”

The Doctor shook his head. Javert was ready to expose the Doctor for his lie—for what advanced civilization would neglect the pursuit of justice?—when his words were halted by the Doctor’s expression. He had taken on an air of sadness, the resurfacing of long-buried grief. Javert wondered what fate had befallen those who had tried to bring the Doctor to justice. Met an untimely demise, he supposed. His eyes narrowed. Before him was a very dangerous man.

“Have you killed?”

The nod was grave, an admission of a man who had seen war and suffering. For the first time, Javert saw the many years hidden behind the young face, the weariness of an ancient soul. For a man who lived through untold horror, his outward insouciance suddenly made complete sense.

“And yet you have never been brought to justice,” he wondered, assessing the enigma before him. The Doctor responded with a shrug, neither smug nor defiant, merely an acknowledgement of reality.

Javert returned to his questioning. Thus far, the Doctor had shown no sign of deceit. His interrogation may go quickly after all. “Clara. Have you ever forced her to travel with you against her will?”

The shake of the Doctor’s head was emphatic, twisting to the left and right as far as he was able to command his neck. Javert allowed a silent breath of relief, glad to be proven wrong of a brewing theory that the Doctor had once taken Clara hostage to bargain for his freedom from the Time Lords or the Shadow Proclamation, or both. It appeared that he was nothing more than a renegade possessing inexplicable liberty from the judgment of his own people.

A renegade who was far from safe.

“Those who have traveled with you. Has anyone died?”

The Doctor closed his eyes, which was all the answer that Javert needed.

“Do disasters tend to occur at places you choose to visit?”

A reluctant nod.

“And somehow you’re still alive. I assume you would take it upon yourself to defend planets against their attackers wherever you go?”

A nod.

“Do you save more lives than cause death?”

A nod.

“So you believe in sacrificing one for the many?”

The Doctor nodded, then, realizing the question probably had something to do with Madeleine, shook his head. He seemed to reconsider again, however, eventually settling for another shrug.

There were still many things Javert didn’t know about the Doctor, but he had gathered enough information to make sense of the situation at hand. The Doctor was indeed a thief and murderer, but he was not a fugitive and appeared to abide by his own code of honor as strictly as Javert adhered to his own. He took no joy in prolonged infliction of pain, for all that he believed the Doctor deserved a sound thrashing for his act of betrayal.

“Final question. You keep asking us to trust you, Doctor. Should we? Can you be trusted?”

The nod, delivered as the Doctor held Javert’s gaze, conveying words that he could not utter, was both a promise and a plea. A recognition that he had not yet earned Javert’s trust, but a supplication nonetheless for undeserved confidence. It was a request from one brother in arms to another, comrades by circumstances rather by choice. Javert knew he would have to accept, if he cared at all about the New New Yorkers’ plight and the possibility of Valjean’s rescue.

He lowered his arm by the requisite few inches that planted the Doctor’s feet firmly on the floor. Then he released his grip.

“Do not think to run, Doctor,” he warned.

The Doctor, hands rubbing the area where Javert had choked him, protested in a hoarse voice, “If you’d only let me explain –”

“And then what, Doctor? What lies would you feed the world, trying to justify your selfish decision to sacrifice Valjean and save your hide?”

Javert froze. _Merde_ , he cursed, regretting his slip of tongue.

The Doctor was lolling his head about, his hands clasped one over each ear as if trying to snap his head back in place. Perhaps he had not heard? Javert wasn’t sure. The Doctor was far too observant than people around him gave him credit for. Even he had to admit that he was always several steps behind the Doctor when it came to gathering and processing clues.

“Oh, so you already know!” No small mercies today, it seemed. “I wasn’t sure, with you only referring to him as Madeleine all the time. Not that he isn’t Madeleine. He’s 100% Madeleine. A more Madeleine Madeleine you won’t be able to find –”

“Doctor…” Javert growled. It had only been seconds, and he already regretted restoring the Doctor’s faculty of speech.

The Time Lord had the grace to look contrite. Perhaps there was some measure of small mercies after all.

“Oh right. You’re still angry at me. Look, Javert, I apologize. There simply wasn’t time to explain. And I’m sure you’ve figured it all out by now.”

Curiosity won over what animosity he still felt toward the Doctor. Javert needed to confirm his theory against additional knowledge that the Doctor seemed to possess. “It appears that our earlier theory was correct. The rift abducts criminals.” He gave the Doctor a meaningful look. “Or those who have committed transgressions the universe deems reprehensible.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. That’s why you and Clara were unaffected.”

Javert frowned. “This means there is corruption in the Senate and among the police. Laftner’s son must have had his records purged.”

“Ah, no, that’s where you’re mistaken, Inspector. Not a mistake. More like cultural differences. Remember what we were talking about when I figured everything out?”

Javert replayed the final minutes of their conference room conversation in his mind. “I was arguing with Madeleine about his unscrupulous tendency toward charitable giving. Prior to that, Mademoiselle Clara spoke about the girl she met.”

“And the famous racecar driver who died. The one the entire city was required to mourn for. Who else can that be but –”

“Samuel Laftner,” Javert finished for the Doctor. He had assumed the death was vehicle-related. He chastised himself. This was a mistake of junior officers. “Is car racing an offense in New New York? I fail to see how this ties the younger Laftner to criminal activities.”

The Doctor drew near and was about to clap a hand on Javert’s shoulder, but seemed to reconsider when he realized things were not yet resolved between them. To anyone else, the Doctor was back to being his eccentric, enthusiastic self. But through the practiced eyes of an inspector, Javert glimpsed more authenticity in the Time Lord in the way he now carried himself, with fewer hand gestures and less circling around Javert, as if he no longer needed to dazzle Javert with distractions to maintain a façade of himself.

The Doctor settled for resting his hands at waist level and speaking plainly to Javert. “In another century or so after your time, cars will become so common that there’ll be whole new sets of laws written around traffic rules. It’s not unusual for drivers to be issued speeding tickets for driving too fast, something that just needs to be paid off. As a racecar driver, I’d be surprised if Samuel Laftner hadn’t gotten hundreds of tickets.”

“The tickets,” Javert said, understanding dawning on him. “The rift seeks out traffic offenders as well.”

“Exactly. But traffic offenses are not classified as criminal arrests, which is why you couldn’t find Samuel’s name among the police records, and why a good portion of the victims weren’t seen as criminals at first. That threw us off.”

Cultural differences indeed. The concept of a class of lawbreakers, indistinguishable from common citizens, who only needed to pay a fine for an offense, was entirely new to Javert. He had to accept, however grudgingly, that this current investigation was not one that he would be able to solve without the Doctor’s assistance.

But professional respect could only go so far. “You betrayed us. Betrayed Valjean.”

The Doctor raised a hand to the back of his neck. “Well, about that…”

“You already knew who he is, _what_ he is! You planned to have him abducted all along!”

“That depends on your definition of all along –”

“You sent him to die!” Javert didn’t know how loudly he screamed; all he heard was the deafening beating of his heart, pulsing against the ringing in his ears. Why was he so livid on behalf of a condemned criminal? He didn’t know. He only knew that, when the ringing subsided in his ears and he regained some degree of awareness of his surroundings, they were up against the TARDIS console, his hands on the Doctor’s shoulders, pinning his upper body against a control panel.

“Is that how you kill the others, by your scheming? Sauntering into people’s lives and playing the meddler? Fixing your problems while abandoning everyone else to defend themselves against the horrors you leave behind? Because if that’s what you do, then you’re a far more dangerous man than I had previously thought.”

“Tail lights! I had no choice!”

“Tail lights?” Javert repeated, uncomprehending.

“To guide the TARDIS into the rift. I’ve collected all the readings to know how to get there safely, but I don’t know where. Someone needs to go inside the rift with one of the sonic-enhanced flashlights to signal us from the other side.”

“This doesn’t justify your actions.” Javert spat. “What you did, it was wrong.”

The Doctor squirmed under the weight. “Three hundred New New Yorkers, and who knows how many more! Open your eyes, Javert. It’s not just about right and wrong, black and white. If everybody only does the right thing, the universe would have been destroyed a long time ago.”

“And so you devise your own rules?” His hands on the Doctor were relentless. “This is what makes you so dangerous, Doctor. You’ve appointed yourself as the universe’s arbiter of justice. You play God and executioner, and there’s no one to stop you.”

“I can say the same about you,” the Doctor snapped. “You accuse me of taking the rules into my own hands? Ha! You do the same thing with Madeleine. You hunt him down when the world has forgiven him and embraced him as a mayor. But you never did. Those numbers you gave me, I know what they are now, I’ve found out.”

“Spying on us, Doctor?” Javert snarled.

“Do you think I’d let any random stranger into my TARDIS? Your record is absolutely spotless and Madeleine’s a harmless bread thief. What? Look, we’re in a ship with one of the universe’s most extensive data core. Mayor and Inspector, 1820, Montreuil-sur-Mer, France, Earth. Your records were easy to find.”

Javert was silent. He may have the Doctor trapped under his arms, but he was no match for the Time Lord.

The Doctor sighed. “If it makes you feel any better. I only just looked it up after I received the TARDIS’s calculations about the next abduction. I needed to know if either of you would be possible targets for the rift. It’s sheer luck that Madeleine happens to fit the profile. In fact, I’m grateful that he stole a loaf of bread five billion years ago.”

“And committed robbery as well as violated parole upon his release,” Javert added.

“Does it matter?” The Doctor challenged. “He’s reformed! Madeleine the Mayor, a brand new life and a sparkling clean slate. Think of all the good he’s done!”

“He’s still wanted by the law.”

“He’s still wanted by _you_.”

It was commonly said that the truth stung. The Doctor’s words felt like a slap to the face. It was true that no one but Javert seemed to maintain an interest in Jean Valjean’s case. The justice system had all but forgotten Valjean. Why then did Javert refuse to let the case rest?

“Can you let me go now, please?”

Javert withdrew his hands, muttering a half-hearted apology to no one in particular. He looked at the Doctor as he twisted and stretched his torso and flung his arms about. The anger had drained from him. He felt weary. They shouldn’t be feuding, not when there was a common enemy beyond the rift that now had Valjean held hostage.

“Madeleine, Jean Valjean, or whatever you prefer to call him. Who is he to you anyway?” the Doctor asked.

“He’s wanted by the law.” An automatic response, words rolling off his tongue on their own accord.

“Yes, yes, I know. But who is he? To you, Javert the Inspector?”

Javert took the time to consider. He had hated Valjean enough to pursue him. But had he not also felt protective of him enough to feel enraged on his behalf at the Doctor’s betrayal? Loathe as he was to admit it, Jean Valjean had been his one constant, a presence that, no matter how central to his life or how precariously he loomed on the periphery, had known him most of his adult years. He could be drawn to despise the convict or respect the mayor, but the pull that Valjean had on him was there nonetheless, and he was as defenseless to fight against it as a wasp drawn to a candlelight that promised only fire and burning upon coming too close.

“I despise Jean Valjean but admire Madeleine the Mayor,” Javert confessed.

“There, that’s not so hard to admit, isn’t it?” Realizing his mistake, the Doctor quickly added, “No, I wasn’t mocking you, I promise! It’s just… it’s all obvious to me once I put two and two together. You loathe Madeleine but can’t imagine a world without him.”

Javert harrumphed at that. He couldn’t deny the truth.

The Doctor continued, “My greatest enemy, the Master, a Time Lord like me, once said that he can’t bear the thought of a cosmos without me. When I found out about what he said, I took it as a compliment. Now if there’s ever someone beyond reform, it would be the Master. He destroyed galaxies and took delight in dominating over whole species. But you know what? The Master saved my life and died doing so. Well, went off into a sealed universe along with the craziest ones of my people, but that’s probably worse than death.

“Or take my wife! River Song, now that’s a woman who knows how to send mixed messages. She tried killing me on our first date, trained all her life up to that point for it. You think Madeleine is bad because he broke parole? River breaks out of prison more times than I can count. But you know what I found out? She’s a lovely person. She also gave her life saving me, twice, or more, if you count each of her remaining regenerations that she used up. The point is, people change, and if there’s ever someone who’s learned from his past, I’d put my wager on Madeleine.”

The Doctor’s words were jumbled and not a lot of them made sense, but his point was not lost to Javert. People change—the argument of the Time Lord, someone who was himself a tainted criminal. Were all criminals like this, whether the Doctor or the Master or Valjean, claiming their ability to change? If Valjean had genuinely repented, then why was it that Javert could still glimpse _Jean-le-Cric_ in those eyes, could still smell the fury of a convict underneath the skin of Madeleine? If Madeleine was nothing but a façade, then was it possible that the real Jean Valjean, convict from Toulon, could manage to turn from his evil ways?

“Look, Javert, whether you admit it or not, you were extremely upset when Madeleine was taken. And for that, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much you care for him.”

“I do not care for him,” Javert refuted.

“But he isn’t nothing to you.”

He couldn’t find fault with that statement.

The Doctor circled around to the TARDIS monitor and tapped several commands into the keyboard. “Here,” he said as he swung the monitor toward Javert. “Check the record. Jean Valjean, convict and Mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer. The TARDIS tracks people’s statuses by her time, which for us is now. He’s still alive, or else the screen would have big bold letters saying ‘deceased’ across the top.”

Javert scanned Valjean’s profile. Born 1769 in Faverolles, France, Earth, Solar System, Milky Way Galaxy. Occupation: Pruner, galley worker, mayor, gardener. Criminal record: Available, press Enter to retrieve records (Javert chose not to do so). He read on. Family: Parents, deceased; Sister, record not found; Daughter (Javert wondered briefly at that): press Enter to retrieve additional information.

“Javert. Javert!” He started as if waking from a dream. “Swing the monitor back to me. We just got incoming signal—Madeleine’s used his flashlight on the other side. Once I have us locked onto the coordinates, we’ll be set for take off.”

Javert watched the Doctor flit about the console, pressing a button here and pulling a lever there. Everything suddenly looked as if it were a dream. And indeed, this was all a dream; reality will settle in once he returned to Montreuil-sur-Mer. And then life would go on.

He had seen the future. _Jean Valjean, date of recorded death: November 16, 1823. Cause of recorded death: Drowning, upon rescuing a man on board the ship Orion, docked for repair in Toulon, France._

He was right all along, the Law would ultimately triumph. Whether he had attained change, Valjean would die in Toulon as a galley slave. And since Javert was the only one still in pursuit after him, this could only mean that between now and 1823, Javert would turn Valjean over to the authorities. To his death.

Even to himself, Javert found his action to be harsh. But there was also pride in knowing that, no, traveling with criminals like Valjean and the Doctor would not doom him to deviate from the Law that he had dedicated his life to follow. Valjean would be brought to justice. He, Javert, would do the right thing.

Why was it, then, that it felt so wrong?

-

Just before take off, the Doctor remembered he had one more conversation to tend to. So, leaving Javert to his own thoughts—after what happened in the past hour, he was sure to have a lot to think about—the Doctor went further inside the TARDIS and found Clara in her room, sitting in one of the couches set up there and staring at what seemed like the same page of a book for the past hour. He sat down in the couch opposite of her.

“The inspector and I, we’re okay now,” he said.

Nodding, Clara lowered her book. She spotted the bruise on his neck. “Does it hurt? Much?”

“Nah, Javert didn’t aim to kill. I knew that, that’s why I let him do what he did.”

“Really? You seemed pretty helpless to me, pinned against the wall.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice. Good, Clara wasn’t mad at him anymore. Not _much_ anymore, anyway.

“I’ve lived through worse.” He drew his fingers together in a steeple. “Look, Clara, about Madeleine. I got ahead of myself. There wasn’t time to explain, but that’s not an excuse. I should have given him a warning, given all of you a warning. I take full responsibility.”

Clara leaned forward and placed a hand on his knee. “I’m not mad at you for that, Doctor. I know there isn’t always time. What I’m frustrated about is how you always keep everyone in the dark. Your grand plans at fixing people, at solving problems all by yourself without sharing the burden with anyone else. Doctor, we’re here to help.”

He clapped a hand over Clara’s. Clara, the one who had saved him so many times. She always came to his aide even when he’d hidden things from her, when all she had to go by was to guess. He needed to be more open with her.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, so I didn’t say anything. Do you know, Clara, that Madeleine’s not what he seems? The rift doesn’t just take any random people, I figured that out now. I know you think the world of the Mayor, but there was a reason why the rift chose him.”

“Because he’s hiding a dark past as some sort of bad person or criminal?”

 _She knew?_ “How did you –”

“Doctor, has it occurred to you to just ask? To spend a few minutes really getting to know the people you’re traveling with instead of using them like chess pieces or a puzzle to be solved? You don’t have to always go searching for clues, you know. Most of the time, people are perfectly willing to talk to you.”

Such wisdom in Clara’s words. The Doctor suddenly felt guilty. Clara was the one companion he’d kept in the dark the most, during their early adventures when he wouldn’t tell her anything about why he showed up at her door one day and persisted in taking her on adventures afterwards. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted.

Clara continued, “I don’t know all the details, and I didn’t ask. But Madeleine told me enough for me to guess. Hearing him talk about his past makes me respect him even more. So don’t worry, I’m more than happy to do everything I can to go save him. Just tell me, tell us, things we should know ahead of time. Let us know how we can help you.”

Clara rose from her couch and, closing the distance between them, planted a kiss on his cheek. She then pulled him up onto his feet. “You look like you’re reading to fly us into the rift. So what’s the plan?”

They walked as the Doctor spoke. He explained the need to send Madeleine into the rift to signal them from the other side. He told her about the coordinates that he now had. He confirmed the theory the team had come up with and told her how Samuel Laftner fit into all this. When they got into the console room, Javert was waiting for them, eager to go after Madeleine.

Punching in the coordinates and locking onto the signal that Madeleine’s flashlight provided, the Doctor yelled _Geronimo!_ and thrust the TARDIS into the rift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, I welcome your comments/thoughts/feedback.
> 
> The story is about halfway done at this point. It'll probably end up being around 20-25 chapters, for those of you wondering. I'm working on the next bits as fast as I can and will continue to update regularly. Thanks for sticking with it so patiently!


	11. The Land of Perpetual Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor, Clara, and Javert found themselves inside a rift-created world. Where was their mysterious enemy, and where was Madeleine?

The Doctor opened the TARDIS door to a world of darkness. Clara and Javert followed him out. “Where are we?” Clara asked. “This place is so cold.”

The Doctor inspected his surroundings. Three moons hung low in the sky, reflecting the light from a sun nowhere to be detected, whose rays would never directly reach the surface. The Doctor took several steps gingerly, taking an experimental bounce or two. At least the ground was firm and earth-like.

“This isn’t a planet,” he said. “It’s more like a realm or a dimension that the rift created to sustain humanoid life forms. There’s a good chance we’ll be able to find all the hostages here.” His eyes caught the first structure in sight. “Like maybe there.”

The TARDIS had parked herself on a band of grass and moist soil. To their left was a large structure, an office complex of some sort. This complex was constructed with such bland office-building architecture that it could be built from anytime between Earth’s twentieth century to New Earth’s year five billion. Though not tall and only one level for the most part, this structure managed to loom over them in the moonlight. The Doctor turned his head. To his right was a river. He followed the river’s path with his eyes, tracing a circular route that was wrapped all the way around the office complex. For some reason, it reminded the Doctor of a snake encircling its prey before squeezing in for the kill. This snake-river squeezed harder at some places than others; the band of grassland between the river and the building sometimes narrowed into no more than a footpath.

He gave the river a bit more scrutiny. It was wide as well as long. A good half a mile in width, no doubt. The river separated the two shores, making the ground where he and his companions were standing more like an island than one bank of the river. An island with an office complex in the middle, like a prison surrounded by rough terrains designed to be unconquerable. It was easy to deduct where all the hostages were held. The Doctor looked to the shrubs and trees beyond the far end of the complex. In the shadows, he could see movements behind bushes and thickets. So this place sustained plants and wildlife as well.

Looking beyond where they were, the Doctor spotted a Victorian-style mansion on the other shore beyond the river. It looked out of place compared to the futuristic architecture of the prison complex, but it exuded the same sense of wrongness like everything else in this realm. The Doctor supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, since he wouldn’t expect anything that passed through the rift not to be reduced into the blackest version of itself, full of horrors and without any of its former glories. Squinting to get a more focused look at the Victorian house, he was pretty sure that it was constructed during the original Earth’s Victorian era, billions of years ago. He had no idea how long the house had been left to decay in this forgotten realm of darkness, or even if it was safe to step inside. But the first challenge was not to figure out how to enter the mansion; they needed to cross the river first. There was no bridge in sight. Instinct told the Doctor that their mysterious foe—or at least clues that would lead them to this foe—would be waiting for them in the mansion and not in the complex.

He looked to Clara and Javert, both uncharacteristically quiet. They looked as uncomfortable as he was feeling, shaken by the utter twistedness of this place.

“Our answers lie across the river,” the Doctor said, gesturing to the mansion. “But Madeleine and the other hostages are inside the complex here. We have to split up.”

By ‘split up,’ he really meant sending Javert into the complex. There was no way he would allow Clara out of his sight, not here. He looked at the inspector.

Understanding the tacit question, Javert nodded. “I will explore this building and bring Valjean back to the TARDIS once I locate him.” He cast a glance at the river. “Unless you plan to pilot the TARDIS to the other side?”

“No, can’t. It’s taken hours of calculations to figure out how to get the TARDIS safely through the rift. Moving her now might destroy our only way of getting out of here.”

The Doctor bent over and dipped a finger in the water. He tasted it. It was regular, fresh water. The current flowed uniformly from left to right. Though not strong, it would become challenging for a swimmer to have to fight the current in order to travel straight, especially once the person began to tire. He wasn’t a particularly good swimmer and wouldn’t consider subjecting Clara to such a long swim. He needed to consider other options.

It wasn’t cold enough to freeze the river and skate over. He mentally reconstructed one of the TARDIS’s storage rooms but couldn’t seem to recall ever seeing a boat or a raft. He knew he should have gone back to retrieve the gondola he and Romana had once traveled down the river in at St. Cedd's in Cambridge. In his defense, there was Skagra to deal with so he was a bit busy. But defense or not, it did nothing to solve the present problem of their shiplessness. The Doctor looked to the moons and the stars. If only they could fly over…

Images of a ridiculous time he once spent during a rare holiday flashed like a frozen slice of Time Lord art in his mind. This could work!

“Clara, Javert, wait here! I have an idea!”

The Doctor sprinted back into the TARDIS and made a beeline for the skydiving room, silently thanking the Old Girl when he found it at the first turn of the corridor. Inside, at the foot of a giant cliff whose peak was so high up it was hidden by the clouds, was a helicopter ready to take daredevils up into the sky to experience vertical drops steeper than any skydiving excursions on Earth could promise. Next to the helicopter were two motored gliders with golden feather wings that flapped like birds when in flight. Flying devices that the Doctor and River had purchased from the market of Icarusland on a whim. These gliders were perfect for crossing stubborn waters.

Winged gliders in tow, the Doctor bounded outside like a schoolchild about to test his first simulated Dalek model. His grin stretched wider at Clara’s first awed, then ecstatic expression. Even Javert looked at the gliders with envy. The Doctor beamed. He really should take a trip back in time to tell River what an excellent purchase this had been.

He turned to Javert. “We’ll fly to the other side while you search for Madeleine. Any emergency, get back to the TARDIS. Clara, do you have your phone?” Clara nodded, handing her mobile over. The Doctor showed it to Javert. “Keep this with you. It’s a communication device. When it rings, press the green icon that shows up on the screen and hold it to your ear like this –” He demonstrated, then handed the phone to Javert.

“But more importantly, have your flashlight with you at all times. It’s set to bind itself to the energy levels of the rift, which means anyone who uses the flashlight outside the rift will be brought here. But since you’re already here, the flashlight will keep you grounded in this dimension so you don’t get dragged into another realm.

“If you find other hostages, keep them all together. I’m going to try to figure out how to reverse the polarity of the rift and send everyone back to New New York. But until then, the rift’s not safe. Remember, flashlight.” At Javert’s nod, he added, “Good luck.”

-

The winged glider was spectacular, Clara decided, as she let the gentle flap of golden feathered wings take her across the river. In front of him, the Doctor veered to the left and right and would perform an occasional flip. His glider seemed to shine golden on its own and Clara imagined the same of hers. In this gloomy world, images of warm sun and golden wings were a welcomed thought.

All too soon, the flight was over. They landed on the opposite side of the river. The TARDIS now looked like a miniature model in the distance. “It’s too cumbersome to take our wings around,” the Doctor said, carefully laying his glider onto a patch of grass. Reluctantly, Clara did the same.

“So! The mansion,” the Doctor said. “A Victorian house actually built during the Victorian times. In original Earth I believe, billions of years ago. Or maybe just hundreds, this can be any house plucked from its time and planted here. What do you think, Clara?”

She wasn’t actually thinking about anything in particular at this moment. “I think the house looks old to me,” she said, a shrug in her tone.

“Old and _Victorian_ ,” the Doctor reminded. “Don’t you think it’s a bit odd? A little too coincidental?”

“Enlighten me,” Clara said, playing her part perfectly. For times like this, when the Doctor had the answer all along but needed to think out loud to show off, Clara had learned to perfect the role of the starry-eyed companion.

“Well, Clara Oswald, did you know that the very first Torchwood Institute was founded by Queen Victoria in 1879? Torchwood went through many iterations since then, mostly bad, but eventually things straightened up with Torchwood Three. Do you know who used to lead Torchwood Three?”

“Jack Harkness!”

“Yes, Captain Jack Harkness, the Face of Boe! So see, our theory is correct. This mystery is closely related to someone who wants to see the destruction of either the Captain or Torchwood, or both.”

Now that the Doctor was done with his exposition, Clara was genuinely intrigued. Who out there hated Torchwood so much? This person clearly had no qualms about abducting people, so he must score pretty low on the morality scale as well. An intergalactic criminal with a vengeance who had taken to abduct people for fun. Clara shuddered. She was glad she never encountered this person during any of her fractured lives.

They were now past the metal gate that the Doctor easily unlocked with his sonic screwdriver. They walked past a weed paradise that may have once been a well kept front garden. Beyond the neglected yard was the enormous front door, a good three and four feet taller than what the regular height of a door should be. The Doctor made a grumpy face. “We may have a problem here, my sonic screwdriver doesn’t do wood.”

Smiling, Clara pushed the door and, with a loud creak, the entire thing, both door and hinges, fell at her touch and crumbled to the ground. “Old abandoned house, remember?” she said. “Can’t be perfectly intact.”

The Doctor now wore the _you're so smart_ face that Clara loved. She grinned in response. “Good thinking, Clara!” He offered a hand and Clara took it. “Let’s explore the decrepit Victorian house, shall we?”

Each holding a flashlight in their other hand, the Doctor and Clara walked in.

-

Flashlight in hand, Javert entered the complex with ease; the outer doors were not locked. Before entering, he had noted that the structure was a long rectangle, not tall save for what seemed to be a tower on the far side of the structure, on the opposite end of the building from where the TARDIS had landed them. He was going to have to walk down the entire length of the building in order to locate all the hostages.

Once inside, he passed what he assumed to be a greeting area with a welcome desk and several chairs set up for visitors. The area led directly into one long corridor that extended all the way down to at least the center of the facility. Javert started walking, checking for signs of life but finding none. About every ten feet, there would be rooms branching off on either side of the corridor, but every door of these side rooms was locked. Javert placed his ear against several doors. No sound came from within. He knocked on a few, just to be sure. He thought he heard a sound from behind one of the doors he chose to knock on, but if there had been a response, it was too muted for Javert to ascertain whether a person was indeed inside, or simply because mice and other crawling creatures had infested this place.

The further down the corridor he walked, the more unnatural Javert found his present surroundings. This was highly unusual. Over three hundred people taken and not a sound in the darkness. Had the Doctor taken them to the wrong place? He admitted he didn’t have the highest confidence in the Doctor’s piloting—or in his regard for the Doctor in general. But Valjean’s signal to the TARDIS was unmistakable. If anything, he trusted the TARDIS. Javert reminded himself to remain calm. He was still at one end of the complex and had more grounds to cover. But he also felt the need to brace himself for the discovery of nothing.

If Valjean was not here, then where would he be?

The Doctor was right, he did feel _something_ toward Valjean, akin to a certain kind of possessiveness. And, he realized, this sentiment had been with him over the years. Jean Valjean was his to hunt down, his to expose, and his to denounce. No one else was allowed to do it. And if he returned to Montreuil-sur-Mer while Valjean was lost in space… Javert didn’t know how he would be able to face another day as a member of the police force, or, his mind supplied, how to face himself when confronted with the reality of such failure.

His boots echoed loudly in the corridor, he had quickened his pace without becoming conscious of it. He slowed down his steps, forcing composure back into his gait. About thirty feet ahead, the corridor was rounding into a turn, denoting a separation into a new section of the building. Perhaps he was exploring a part of the complex that was sealed off from Valjean and the others. Hope pounded in his heart. He needed to find something, someone.

The air around him seemed to grow thicker as he neared the turn. Instinct told Javert that something was ahead—something felt different.

Turning the corner, Javert found himself at the end of his path. Looming before him was a large metal door so cold and imposing that it existed for no other reason than to keep anyone beyond the door either in or out. This barrier looked about ten feet tall. Javert approached it with soft steps, lest anyone was on the other side ready to ambush him. When he was about twenty feet away, he turned off his flashlight and concealed it in his greatcoat. He was near enough to be able to close the distance in the dark.

When he reached the door, Javert pressed an ear against the icy metal, but heard no sound. Either the door was very thick or no one was on the other side. The policeman in him screamed in protest against his recklessness. For the first time since he became an inspector, he was heading into potential danger both physically and tactically alone, without any plan for backup. He realized belatedly that he had not asked the Doctor or Clara how to use the communication device to send them messages. Javert steeled himself. He was here now, he should press on.

His cudgel close at hand should he need to pull it out—it would be unwise to carry it in plain sight and risk being judged a provoker upon entry—and his flashlight safely hidden, Javert extended an arm to search for the door’s handle. His hand found something that felt like a metal bar. As quietly as he could, Javert gave the bar an experimental downward push. To his surprise, this door was not locked. Steadying himself, Javert put more weight on the handle and pulled the heavy door open.

He crossed over the threshold into a large open area. He was in what seemed to be an empty great hall that reminded him of both a _salon_ and a dungeon, large enough for royal balls but eerie in its unnatural stillness. He took several steps forward, his boots clicking too loudly with each step. The hall smelled of ashes. No, not ashes, there was something more… a gentler, warmer scent that Javert associated with flickering flames and melted wax. As soon as this familiar scent invaded his olfactory senses, Javert’s mind snapped into sharp focus. This room had been lit with candles mere seconds ago. The ash he had smelt was the sign of candles having been extinguished. This could only mean that there were indeed people here, and that this great hall was not empty. Whoever was hidden in the shadows had put out the candles right before he had entered.

Javert took several steps back, scanning the hall before him while doing so. He couldn’t see any person or object in what scant moonlight that managed to pry its way into this space. He reached for his cudgel and took two more steps back, a premonition rising in him, confirming that he was most definitely not alone, and that his invisible enemies were many in number.

There was a loud grating, metallic sound.

As if possessing a mind of its own, the door creaked behind him and soon, a loud _boom_ rang in his ears. He felt, rather than saw, a presence boring into his back—an unseen foe who had closed, and now guarded, the door. Javert strained his eyes to look around. He saw no other openings that could serve as an adequate means of escape.

His only way out was cut off. Javert was trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, comments and feedback are welcome and much appreciated.


	12. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the dark rift-created world, Javert ran into someone unexpected.

“Ah, Javert, you’re here at last!”

In the dark, Javert saw the shadow of a man approaching him. Strong arms folded him into an embrace. “If you want to live, don’t tell them you’re the police,” Jean Valjean’s voice whispered in his ear while large hands slapped his back in the greeting of a comrade. “And it wouldn’t hurt if you’d return the gesture,” the voice added, an invitation extended through a smile. Relief, and something akin to joy, flooded through Javert.

Stiffly, he wrapped his arms around Valjean.

“Come, let me show you around,” Valjean said when he pulled away. Javert wasn’t sure if he was expected to respond. He could feel dozens, if not hundreds, pairs of eyes trained on him from all around, silent judges lurking in the darkness dissecting his every move, assessing his worth. He allowed Valjean to lead him by the hand.

“We’re in the main hall, a former office space which we’ve cleared of desks and chairs and have turned into a gathering place. New arrivals usually show up here. Up ahead to your right is a conference room reserved for the sick and injured. The path to the left leads to a large cafeteria, which we’ve turned into a primitive kitchen. Beyond that are hallways and individual rooms.”

They walked pass the conference room. Through the glass panes that served as walls, Javert saw two or three men lying in there. One of them was so still he wasn’t sure if he had already died. Another man groaned as if in great pain.

“Hunting accident,” Valjean explained. “There are strange beasts in this world. I was nearly mauled by a horned tiger with a panther’s body once.”

They turned a corner where an opening in the wall let in the moonlight, illuminating Valjean. Javert stopped.

“Your hair…”

Valjean’s previously dark-brown hair, occasionally peppered with strands of grey, was now completely white.

Valjean didn’t answer but tugged Javert further into the darkness. They passed the kitchen area on the left. A few right turns and several left turns later, they were alone in the heart of the complex, walking down empty corridors.

“We’re in a prison, Javert,” Valjean said, confirming the Doctor’s earlier hypothesis. The words, though hushed, echoed loudly in the silence. Bare walls were not kind to secrets. “This is where the rift spits out its victims. There are no locks here, we can go out and hunt, fill our buckets with water from the river that circles this place. But there’s no escape. We’re always waiting for the rift to come back, to transport a victim to another place.”

“Another place?”

“We don’t know where, but those whom the rift takes never return. This place here is but a dumping ground, just like…” Valjean’s breath hitched.

The sound of their footfalls thundered in the silence.

“Like the cellar,” Valjean whispered, “below the _Châtlet de Paris_. The holding place before the convicts are sent to Toulon.”

They turned a corner and Javert saw that they were now at the foot of a narrow set of stairs. Releasing his hand, Valjean walked toward the ladder-like steps. He then paused. “Javert, there is a staircase here… can you see it?”

Javert groped about until his hands found the railings on either side of the stairs. “I can manage,” he said, following Valjean up the steps.

“That’s… good.” Valjean sounded almost grateful. Javert supposed prolonged darkness made running into one’s longtime enemy welcome. “You’ll get used to being in the dark. It took me a while, but this is not so different from the _bagne_.”

A thought occurred to Javert. “How long have you been here, Valjean? How long has it been, for you?”

In the growing light, he saw Valjean shrug. “A year, perhaps? Ten months? I’ve lost count.”

A year! It had only been hours in New New York’s time…

Valjean reached the top of the stairway and pushed open a door. Moonlight flooded their surroundings. “This is my favorite place,” Valjean said as he stepped out into the balcony of the prison’s tower, another oddity of this realm, a bizarre architectural attachment that joined what was familiar in cathedrals of his time to a structure that could otherwise blend into the built environment of New New York. Javert followed. The world opened up around him. In the night sky, he could see the three moons and countless stars.

From the height, Javert saw the river that circled around the prison complex. Beyond the river was the Victorian mansion that the Doctor and Clara had gone off to. The TARDIS, so small when seen from a distance, was stationed along the riverbank by the far edge of the complex. Two winged gliders parked on the opposite shore. The Doctor’s plan had worked, then; he and Clara had flown over successfully.

“It has only been hours for us,” Javert said quietly. “We didn’t realize time passes differently here.”

“You came for me?” Valjean asked, and the uncertainty in his voice—the hint of hope against all hopes—stirred something unfamiliar in Javert’s heart.

“Of course we came after you!” he snapped. Irritation was always an effective way to keep his voice from embarrassing tremors. “Did you expect the Doctor to abandon you after he used you as bait?”

Valjean looked away, his eyes finding the TARDIS. “I didn’t expect anything,” he said into the night sky. “After I came here, it became clear that what we had theorized was true, that the rift goes after criminals. There are some non-arrested minor offenders in our midst, which I’m sure you and the Doctor eventually figured out. It also became clear to me that the Doctor already knew who I was, my past. He deemed it just to condemn me to prison.”

“He betrayed you!”

“Did he?” Valjean turned and searched Javert’s face with eyes that failed to completely mask despair, but contained no anger. “Javert, if the Doctor already knew who I am, then what he did was perfectly in the right.”

“By designating you as fodder to be sacrificed? It was wrong, even you can see that!”

“Convicts are condemned to prison, Javert. You’ve reminded me of this often enough.”

He had, hadn’t he?

Valjean continued, “I’m gratified that the Doctor changed his mind. Whatever you may believe, I don’t belong in prison. I will accept any offer of freedom from this place.”

Javert didn’t know whether he should feel shame or horror. Both were foreign sentiments to him, yet both so undeniably present. He could see it now, society did not take kindly to convicts, whether on Earth or in New New York. The withholding of kindness cultivated hatred, bitterness, and resentment—the beastly nature of re-offenders that Law itself had played a role in creating. Once in a while, a rare soul like Valjean would rise above such depravity and set his sight on reformation. But society barred the way to redemption, and these men were forever resigned to regard themselves as outcasts, expecting always to be treated as less than human.

It occurred to Javert that Valjean, even as mayor, had only seen himself in two roles: fugitive or prisoner.

Valjean frowned. “What is it, Javert? Have I said something to offend you?”

Javert shook his head. “These past months. How did you survive?”

“You mean how I avoided being taken by the rift? My flashlight. It diminishes the rift’s pull whenever I shine the light into it. Sometimes the light even manages to seal the rift. That’s why all the prisoners stay together in the main hall. The rift has been known to claim stray hostages after failing to take up anyone from the group.”

Javert recalled their walk here, in total darkness. “You left your flashlight behind,” he said, incredulous.

“There are more people in the main hall. They need it. And knowing you, Inspector –” Valjean added, “You have your flashlight with you.”

Javert grunted in acknowledgement, berating himself for not having thought to use the flashlight during their walk here, though strangely he took no offense at being led by the hand like a child. Valjean was now casting him a warm smile. He may not be used to the white hair, but the smile was familiar, comforting. He chose not to disclose to Valjean that it was his use of the flashlight in New New York that first landed him in this place, having presented the Doctor’s tracking signal into the rift like one end of a magnet seeking its other half. The tracking signal pulled him in, but it was also programmed to keep its user strictly grounded in this realm; it was enough to keep Valjean safe from further abductions. Let him think charitable thoughts about the Doctor for gifting him with a device to defend against the rift. Javert had no desire to see disappointment on that grateful face.

“But I believe,” Valjean pressed on, “your question was more about how I managed the past year without falling into despair. And for this, I have only one answer that may very well sound like foolishness to your ears.

“Faith, Javert, my faith in God sustains me. But this isn’t Madeleine’s faith, pure and untested. At Montreuil-sur-Mer, everything flourished under my touch, there was no opportunity for my faith to falter. But as soon as I set foot in space, I had had my very belief in the existence of God challenged. When He restored my faith, I was then asked to follow Him at all cost, _any_ cost. I didn’t understand it then, but now I know. I needed this stronger faith, in utter surrender to and hope in God, to live through this.”

Javert turned his head and, for the first time, saw not Madeleine the Saint, but _Jean Valjean_ the Saint. A wretched soul clinging to his God, with no adherence to the Law or obedience to a blameless life to offer, but somehow possessing a faith so tenacious that it gained favor in the eyes of his Lord.

Was this possible, for a convict?

“I do not think you are foolish,” Javert said, to Valjean or Madeleine, he no longer knew.

They counted the stars in silence.

“Thank you,” came the eventual reply.

A chill had settled in the air, and Valjean hazarded an arm around Javert, pulling him closer. Javert first stiffened, then relaxed into the touch. “Forgive me, it’s warmer this way,” Valjean said, though he didn’t remove his arm. “I like it out here. And you’re the first familiar face I’ve seen in a year.”

“Is it this bad?”

Valjean looked into the river. “Imagine Toulon, but without prison guards. I hated all of you then, of course, but the guards kept order. Here, I had to first earn their trust, and then try to instill some semblance of organized structure.”

“You guard this prison?” The irony was not lost on Javert.

Nor was it lost on Valjean. He laughed. “I try to. I organize groups to hunt for food, to fetch water. I designated the conference room as a medical bay to care for the sick and injured. I break up fights. I can do all this because I came here with a mysterious flashlight. I stopped many people from being abducted.

“But there is a woman, Candace Thorpe, the one that Chief Hargrave spoke about, who oversees the day-to-day operations like cooking and washing. She was a community organizer in New New York. The rift took her because she’d been arrested many times while protesting. She used to advocate on behalf of the poor. The prisoners accept her. She has earned their respect.”

“And so have you.”

Valjean shook his head. “They accept me because I’m one of them.” His voice was low. “The violent criminals, they hold all the powers here. By the time I arrived, most of the minor offenders had already been sacrificed to the rift. The Senator’s son, I was able to convince to have him held for future blackmail or bargaining. Otherwise, all those who remain are like the lifers at the _bagne_ , hardened and vile, just like who I used to be at Toulon.” The hand grasping his shoulder tightened, a possessive grip and a warning. “Stay close to me, Javert, or they’ll steal your flashlight and sacrifice you next.”

“I can defend myself, Valjean –”

“Jean. Here, I’m known as Jean.”

He tested the name. “Jean.” It felt improper, too intimate. But also very fitting. “You speak differently here.”

“Like how I used to talk in Toulon?” There was a faraway look in Valjean’s eyes. “I suppose old habits slip back easily. I was known to have the ability to swear up a storm.”

“So I have heard,” Javert drawled. “ _Get the fuck off me or I’ll hang you by the balls and dunk you into the shithole._ ”

Valjean gasped. Then, throwing his head back, he let out a roar of laughter belonging to the convict in Javert’s memories. “You remember that? That was my fourth escape attempt. Caught after a mere four hours! I was angry. They were empty threats and I’m afraid not very inventive. I apologize.”

Javert’s lips twitched. “No need. I must admit, that phrase was much quoted among the guards for weeks afterwards.”

“Glad to have contributed to your entertainment,” Valjean teased, but then turned serious. “I mean it, Javert. Just say we knew each other from Toulon and let them assume you’re one of us.”

 _One of us_. Tried as he may, Javert couldn’t muster up any indignation at being considered Valjean’s equal.

-

He allowed Valjean to lead him back to the main hall in the dark. Both agreed that it was premature, and certainly too dangerous, to reveal that Javert was in possession of a second flashlight.

Javert did not try to memorize the twists and turns of the corridors; he had no reason to, the Doctor would take them all back to New New York soon. Instead, his mind focused on the unfamiliar sensation of a strong hand clasping his, casual and unaware save for the intention of serving as a guide. And Javert found himself trusting this guide, knowing with certainty that even in almost complete darkness, Valjean would lead him through the labyrinth into safety.

Not long ago, he dreamt of trapping this hand with the cold metal of his manacles. Yet now, the dream had turned into an inevitable duty, an act that he would commit because it had already been foretold. Javert pushed the thought away. He would contend with the future later. For now, he relished the warmth of Valjean’s hand that reminded him there was more to the darkness and the cold in this rift-created realm, that there was trust and honor, and that all was not hopeless.

He wondered if Valjean understood and accorded the same significance to the simple gesture of touch. Javert very much doubted it. To Valjean, this was no more than an offer of help, an act of kindness, and M. Madeleine was known to dispense kindness to everyone who crossed paths along his way.

Despite what he had tried so hard to deny, and for so long, Valjean—both as Madeleine and _Jean_ —embodied kindness. This was terrifying enough of a new revelation for Javert to dwell on for now.

“Everyone, this is my friend Javert,” Valjean announced to silent eyes when they returned to the great hall. “We share a long history, back to our days in Toulon, the prison I told you about. I’m excited to have him join us here.”

From the shadows, several criminals hummed and hooted their approval. Javert bit down on his tongue.

“The rift got you at last, eh, mate?” A voice to his right jeered. “Tell me, what are you in for? Theft? Murder? Or something more _scandalous?_ ”

As if sensing Javert’s rising rage, Valjean squeezed his hand reassuringly. “What do you think?” he answered on Javert’s behalf. “He’s the son of a convict and a gypsy fortuneteller. When it comes to having a stomach for the more thrilling things of life, the sky’s the limit.”

The hall filled with raucous laughter.

“A hunter then?” a woman’s voice piped up. “Or a man skilled with his _tools?_ ”

“I’m sure Javert would be a great asset to the hunting team,” Valjean interjected before the subject matter could disintegrate into something vulgar. “Don’t you, my friend?”

“I am trained to aim with precision,” Javert answered in an even tone. Though not for the purpose of hunting, it was nonetheless the truth.

“Right, we are settled then. Javert will replace Edmund until he recovers from his injury. We hunt tomorrow at moonset. I will show Javert the terrains and he will be given Edmund’s bow and arrows. Fifty-thirty-twenty, as usual.”

Fifty-thirty-twenty. Javert knew this bargain well. The convicts at Toulon, whenever they acquired some illicit goods, would divide the spoils among those who were deemed worthy. Half would go to the perpetrator and a third to his partners in crime. The others must satisfy themselves with splitting the remaining fifth. Javert was surprised to hear the system so readily accepted by this group of criminals. It was true then, that convicts anywhere, any _when_ , were the same.

“So Fresh Face here gets top spoil the minute he shows up?” A raspy voice protested. “This isn’t fair.”

“Hunters get their dues, you know the rule, Jacoby,” the voice of Madeleine said, mild yet full of authority, broaching no disagreement. Jacoby muttered something indecipherable but did not complain further.

They sat down to an evening meal then (if the time when the moons hung in the air could be considered evening), a patchwork supper of game meat, fish, fruits, and murky river water. Understanding his precarious status as the newcomer, Javert abstained from partaking until everyone had had their fill. Valjean passed him a piece of fish near the conclusion of the meal.

If he were feasting on anything, it was the sight of Jean Valjean the convict flickering in and out of focus in the dim candlelight, at once the same condemned soul he remembered from Toulon and also a far better man whom he had come to grudgingly accept, who was now interacting with his fellow prisoners with ease. Valjean’s barks of laughter were not gentle, nor his words suitable for a child’s ears. The gleam of his eyes reflected in the moonlight was almost dangerous, though it invoked neither fear nor repulsion from Javert. He sat on the stone floor, one arm slung easily over the knee of a propped leg, the very image of a bear yet losing none of the majesty of a lion. He ate carelessly, yet his eyes always sought out those who were less capable of laying their hands on food. Those poor souls would find a skewer of panther meat or a steak of fish tossed their way. No one dared intercept Valjean.

This was Jean Valjean the convict, Javert realized, the person he had always been. So was there ever truly a Madeleine?

A man next to Javert remarked on the toughness of the panther meat and he grunted something in reply. The man then took liberty to pry into his history with Valjean. “What was he like, in your prison? Did he lead riots often?”

Valjean had not. Javert could hardly remember Valjean save for his periodic displays of strength and his persistent need to escape. In Toulon, Valjean had mostly kept to himself.

Javert spat, “The prison guards were scum.” He did not hide his opinion of some of his less savory colleagues. There was no need to lie. “They took bribes from the convicts and would sooner incite a riot if given the chance.”

“Oho! A prisoner-led jailhouse then. You were a leader just like Jean, I assume?”

“I am hardly his equal,” Javert deflected.

“Of course. Jean’s one of a kind.” A lascivious wink. “I bet he needed a good wing man.”

Javert forced away the disgust rising like bile in his throat. He was familiar with what the convicts did with each other and how sometimes the guards would force themselves on the convicts. He’d had no part in any of that.

Javert realized that if he didn’t take over the rein of the conversation, an inevitable outburst would betray his true identity very soon. So he changed the subject. “I’m sure you’re aware of Jean’s strength. But are you aware of his ability to scale walls without a single tool or length of rope in his hand?”

This caught the man’s attention. Gratified, Javert continued, “In Toulon, just like the river here, nature served as another layer of barrier surrounding the prison. Beyond the galleys was the sea, with high walls serving as piers where passing ships would be docked. These walls were imposing and would spell death for anyone who fell over into the rocks below. One day, when the guards were not watching, Jean broke free from his chain and attempted to escape by sea.

“The guards found him clinging against one of the steep walls. Now, the cliff was slick, covered with moss and wet with sea water. But Jean climbed down as if he were descending a ladder, without a care in the world.” Javert remembered the sight. As a young guard, he was aghast at the convict’s audacity. But his heart had also pounded with anxiety, something he would later spend weeks trying to forget, wracked with shame for feeling sympathy for a criminal. “It was quite a spectacle to behold.”

“Did he make it?” a younger, more eager voice asked. So he had acquired an audience.

“He did. The prisoners cheered as he neared the bottom of the wall, while the guards could do nothing but watch. I remember this as clear as day. There must have been more than a dozen guards looming over the edge of the pier, but no one dared climb down after him. Eventually someone brought over a knotted rope and lowered it over the wall, and several guards went down in pursuit. As they were getting close, Jean stopped his descent and looked into the waters below. I was inexperienced then and thought he had run out of strength. But now I know that Jean merely paused to map out the rocks and assess the waves in his mind, for, without warning, he jumped into the water.” Javert closed his eyes briefly, reliving the moment in his head. “He never resurfaced. It was March and the water was still cold. Everyone assumed he had drowned, but I knew better.”

“So what happens next?” the raspy voice who not long ago had opposed him—Jacoby—asked.

“Back in the galleys, everyone who shared a chain with Jean got thirty lashes.” He felt Valjean tense beside him. Let the saint feel guilty for his crimes, he’d have something to repent over later.

There was not a sound in the great hall. Javert realized that all attention was now focused on him.

“As for me, the first thing I did was to inform my contacts to send reinforcement ahead of Jean’s expected resting place that night.” The contacts, of course, were officers in the local constabulary who later recaptured Valjean and returned him to the galleys. But nobody here needed to know that. Let them believe that he had arranged for food and clothing for a friend. He gave Valjean a knowing look. “It was the least I could do.”

It started first as a single clap, but then others joined in and the whole room was soon applauding and cheering for Javert. The man next to him slapped a heavy arm across his shoulders.

He had done it. He was accepted as one of them.

How he had fallen.

-

“Remind me never to underestimate you, Inspector,” Valjean said when they were alone, outside the complex under the guise of Javert being shown the hunting terrains. Each of them held an empty bucket in his hand to fetch water from the river on their way back.

“I felt sullied.”

“Don’t.” Valjean led them closer to the river, where the rushing water could mask their words. “I always did wonder how the police found me so quickly after my escape.”

“If you expect an apology from me, don’t hold your breath.”

Valjean laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They gazed at the river’s current. It flowed from left to right, unnatural movements that traveled in circles inside a riverbed that was perfectly flat all the way around. Small abnormalities like this made this realm feel sinister.

“You said the Doctor will reverse the pull of the rift to carry everyone back to New New York?” Valjean asked. “How long will this take? Hours? Days?”

“I don’t suppose it will take long. He asked me to keep you and the others I might find close by. He seemed to have implied that the transport will occur tonight.”

Valjean nodded. “That’s good. I won’t have to subject you to the hunt.”

Ah, the hunt. He was now part of the food-procurement team. “It is peculiar, that your captor provides food and water while you wait for the rift to strike.”

Valjean hummed in agreement, his eyes following the shadow of a fish swimming against the current. Another strange sight.

Valjean turned and realized he was expected to answer. He frowned. “I’m afraid I’m not following you, Javert.”

“A good number of your fellow captives seem certain that once the rift takes someone from here, that person dies. If that is the case, then why the extra step? Why not kill you all at the first taking? Why provide you with means of survival here? You have said as much yourself, labeling this place the cellar beneath the _Châtlet de Paris_ , a clearinghouse before the final destination.”

Valjean considered the implication of Javert’s words. “None of the people who remain wants to be taken by the rift again,” he said. “But that’s because remaining in a miserable place is preferable to facing the unknown.”

“And yet Jean Valjean the convict had refused to remain in the misery of Toulon time after time.”

The curve of Valjean’s lips spoke a thousand words of regret. “Freedom was ultimately unattainable, but a far better prospect. Somehow, I knew things would be better out there, beyond the _bagne_ , even as an escapee. Instinct told me to seize freedom before it was my time to be granted it. But here…” He paused, searching for logic that wouldn’t come. “It’s also instinct. Here, I know that when the rift comes, things will be far worse on the other side.”

Javert had no basis to disagree. “If you hadn’t interfered with your flashlight, whom would the rift take? The healthy? The invalid? The strong? Or the weak?”

“Anyone, no discernible pattern. But it is indeed very particular. The rift always first opens above one person’s head.”

“And when those criminals sacrifice an alternate victim?”

“I have only witnessed two sacrificial takings, when I’d first arrived. Both times I was too slow to stop them…” Valjean shuddered. “Yes, the rift did take the substitute. But it would do so reluctantly, if I can ascribe emotions to the rift. The victim would be taken up slower.” He grimaced. “It was torturous to watch.”

Valjean filled his bucket with water. He then took Javert’s bucket and did the same, setting the second pail on the bank only to discover that a fish had been scooped up along with the water. He watched the fish swim inside the bucket with mild amusement. Strange as it was to admit, their interaction seemed almost familiar. Instead of peering at a fish, Javert imagined Mayor Madeleine sitting at his desk, reading over and signing documents as he listened to Javert give his police report. Madeleine would ask questions and Javert would answer in a clipped tone, always professional. They took turns talking. Whenever Javert paused, Madeleine would fetch the next document, giving him time to process his thoughts. Javert, for his part, would wait until he was prompted to continue.

“Go on, Javert, you’ve figured something out,” Madeleine— _Valjean_ —said.

As if by instinct, Javert bowed—the respect paid to a magistrate. Too late to catch himself, he was grateful that Valjean was still staring at the fish. He began, “We have already established that the anonymous donations given to New New York are in exchange for the abductions. We now know where people are taken to. I am in agreement with you that this place is but a holding place. Specific victims are chosen to be transported to yet another realm; we have no reason to believe they will not survive the transport. This… process, if it can be labeled as such, is part of a larger system of purchase and delivery.”

Valjean was looking at him now, listening attentively.

“Now, why would anyone want to purchase a criminal? I have two theories. The first reason is for labor, whether paid or unpaid. You have worked many years at the galleys so I don’t need to explain. My second theory was formed just now based on your words. The prisoners here seek substitutes to sacrifice to the rift. Perhaps there are people in other planets willing to purchase humans for substitutional purposes.”

“So we have a case of trafficking?”

“Indeed. I no longer have reason to believe it not to be so.”

“And given New New York’s fiscal crisis, it makes sense,” Valjean mused. “Profit and exploitation are reasons enough for such deplorable trades. Remember when Laftner bemoaned that the city no longer has an established export industry? New New York has been operating in an economic vacuum. It’s not surprising for shadow economies to take over.”

Javert nodded. “In addition to my deductions of the trafficking process, the Doctor has determined the mechanism of the abductions.”

“The Doctor!” Valjean’s eyes shone with hope. “Do you think he and Clara will find the trafficker in that building beyond the river?”

“I had believed so, but now I’m doubtful,” Javert said. “Why would anyone station himself here to watch over a group of prisoners helpless to defend themselves against the rift?”

“That was before I came here with the flashlight,” Valjean pointed out.

“Perhaps, but if a station needs guarding, an officer would assign a subordinate for the task.”

“I see your point,” Valjean agreed, and paused to take in what had been presented to him in the last few minutes. “There are more mysteries yet,” he thought aloud. “Such as who. Yes! We must find out who in New New York has betrayed its citizens. Someone must have provided the abductors with the city’s crime records.”

“Someone from the police,” Javert corrected.

“Hargrave?”

Javert shook his head. “No, he became Chief six months ago, after the abductions had started.”

“Then it must be someone who has been there longer.” Valjean reached down and took up one bucket in each hand, as if fifty liters of water plus a fish weighed nothing. “Javert, we should get back. You can talk to some of the hostages. They may be able to provide you with clues.”

Just then, Clara’s communication device rang. Javert took it out and pressed the green symbol flashing on the screen.

“Javert!” the Doctor greeted. “If you’ve found Madeleine, then I need you both back at the TARDIS, now!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based Javert's story about Valjean's escape on the visuals of the Toulon bagne from the 2012 movie. In the opening scene, there were looming walls built for the ships to dock. Yes, those walls had ladders and steps. Here, I took the liberty to imagine Valjean choosing to scale down a wall without any easy footholds (and far away from walls that had steps) in order to make it harder for the guards to chase after him.
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> As always, thanks so much for reading! I would love to hear your thoughts/feedback.


	13. On Matters of Rift Manipulation, Freedom, and Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Clara explore the abandoned mansion, gathering information for the team's next course of action. Jean Valjean and Javert must make a choice to further their part of the investigation.

The mansion’s interior was dark, but no worse than the grimness outside. The Doctor and Clara entered a Great Room that may have once been filled with princes and nobilities talking of political ambitions while their sisters and wives impressed in ball gowns and evening dresses. All that remained in the room now were overturned chairs and a broken mirror hung high upon the far wall. The Doctor passed his flashlight over the carpeted floor directly underneath the mirror. Shards of broken glass gleamed back at him.

They next entered the dining hall. What was once a long oak table was splintered into many sections, strewn across the room among yet more fallen chairs. The broken furniture lay atop countless pieces of shattered bowls and plates, broken drinking glasses, and silver utensils strewn in no particular pattern on the floor. The debris, large and small, covered almost the entire floor space.

They backed out of the dining hall to find a sitting room that was also in a state of disrepair. Plush cushions made of a velvety material were flung far across from the couches and loveseats they were supposed to decorate. A mountain of books collected at the foot of pieces of broken bookshelves. A family portrait dangled by one corner on top of the fireplace. A few family members’ heads were missing from where the portrait had ripped.

They found the entrance to the cellar. Without going down, the Doctor shined his flashlight down the steps and into the floor directly beneath. Several steps were missing, and he couldn’t make out whether the cellar’s flooring were made of stone, wood, or brick, so covered with debris and bits of broken glass that there was not a square inch of exposed surface for anyone to set their foot on. It was too bad about those broken glasses. The cellar may have once held hundreds of bottles of top vintage wines.

The entire place, or what the Doctor and Clara had seen of it thus far, resembled the aftermaths of a battle rather than the orderly headquarters from which their supposed villain were to operate.

“You must have read _The Wizard of Oz_ when you were young,” the Doctor said, after they stepped into a hallway.

Clara shook her head. “Not the book. But I know the story. Dorothy and Toto, transported into Oz. Why’d you ask?”

“Because, Clara,” the Doctor said, turning his flashlight about, illuminating fallen objects throughout their surroundings. He stayed the light at a grand chandelier that lay splattered on the floor where the hallway intersected with the great staircase. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

“Yes, we know that. The house was taken out of time.” Clara paused, then added, “Don’t we?”

“I thought it, but now I know. I was wrong. This place isn’t the home of our mastermind. This mansion was the guinea pig, the first experimental transport to bring an object through the rift into this dimension. First tries are never perfect, and so we’re left with a house that looks like it has been torn up by a tornado and redeposited into a dump. See all these broken furnitures? The transport process wrecked them all.”

“So what are you saying, Doctor?”

The Doctor turned to look behind him, through the entrance where the front door had been, into the outside gate. “I’m saying that nothing in this realm is supposed to be here. This house, the office complex, the animals, the bushes and plants, the trees, the river –” His eyes caught one of the moons. “Even those three moons. Oh, life adapted and somehow managed to sustain itself once the living things were brought here. But there was a time, before this house we’re in had arrived, when this place was nothing, just a void.”

Clara’s face was visible in the glow of the flashlights. Out of the corner of his eyes, the Doctor noticed that blood had drained from her face. He couldn’t fault her. Clara had faced down many dangers without as much as a shudder. But in this realm where nothing was natural, where everything was perverted and wrong, what Clara was feeling was a sense of twistedness, which was the most visceral kind of horror of all.

The air chilled around them, and their moldy, damp surrounding suddenly became suffocating. The Doctor's mind turned back to his present task even as he pivoted his body back toward the inside of the mansion. This place was still worth investigating.

He took out his sonic screwdriver and pointed it toward the grand staircase. “The rift energy is strong,” he said after scanning it for a few seconds. “Let’s go upstairs. We might still find what we’re looking for.”

They walked up the steps in the oppressive silence, the thick carpet absorbing all sounds except for Clara’s quickening breaths. The staircase brought them not to a second story, but to a single, narrow corridor leading into a redwood door. To either side of the corridor, there was nothing—the utter void of the rift. Against the dark, the door looked like a cut-out image pasted onto a black theatrical curtain.

“Well, no way to get lost,” Clara tried her voice at speaking. The Doctor tightened his grip on her hand and led the way down the corridor.

-

Chaos. That was the first word that came to mind when Clara took in the sight of the room as they stepped through the redwood door. Belatedly, she realized that this place was lit as if sunrays had penetrated into nonexistent windows. It was the first time since they’d set foot in this realm that they didn’t need to rely on either the moons or their flashlights to illuminate their surroundings. Clara swept her eyes above and across. She couldn’t find anything that resembled the source of the light, but was glad of the reprieve from the darkness nonetheless.

Her eyes returned to the disorganization before her. It was not the aftermaths of a destructive relocation that she had seen from the first floor. No, this room seemed to have been immune to the effects of the tumbling that the rest of the house had taken when traveling through the rift. The chaos here was more… bureaucratic. There were clutters and things thrown all across the room as if an office full of lawyers had strewn their documents about and refused to stoop below their status to clean up after themselves. On the floor, crunchy papers and folders almost buried all hints of a dusty hardwood floor; everything seemed to have been drenched with water at some point.

Higher up, sheets of loose papers covered every square inch of table space available, piled on top of a round table by the entrance that was to their left. The table may have been made from dark wood, though it may just be the contrast between white sheets of paper and the darker base on which they were scattered. There was a longer, rectangular table a few more steps into the room. This one seemed to have a lighter shade of brown. Clara turned her attention to the papers, easily identifying them to be contracts and signature pages by their dense and stuffy look, legal documents of some sort. Some pages were falling out from overstuffed folders, as if someone had once tried to organize them but had eventually given up. Like the loose papers, some of the folders were tossed carelessly across the floor. Two shelves, strained to overflowing, stood at the right side of the room, against the wall opposite the rectangular table.

Clara trailed her eyes from the paper clutters to the far end of the room. Sitting all the way against the back wall, taking up a good third of the room, was what looked like a giant machine. The contraption reminded Clara of pictures she had once seen of early-day computers, when they used to be monstrous in size but snail-paced in speed.

“That’s a rift manipulator,” the Doctor said, pointing to the clunky machine. “Taken straight out from the twenty-first century, the time period of Torchwood Three. Might even be the same one that Captain Jack used to have in his headquarters.”

“So we can send the people back to New New York?” Clara asked.

“We can, eventually. Machines like this usually have a password or are under some sort of authorization protection.” The Doctor strode up to the rift manipulator, careless of what files or papers he was stepping on. Clara followed by tiptoeing her way into a path through the room. “Just as I thought,” the Doctor said as he pressed several buttons on the rift manipulator experimentally. “Access is keyed to authorized users only, most likely using biometric technology. We’re going to have to figure out how, or from whom, to gain access before we can do anything useful.”

Clara picked up one of the thicker folders from the floor. “Should we examine some of the documents here? They seem important, especially if this is the main operating room.”

The Doctor bent over and also took a file. He scanned through the first few pages of his folder, then quickly flipped through the rest. “Blueprints on how to construct and operate a rift manipulator. Seems like whoever our enemy is took both the machine and its instruction manual.”

“My folder’s different,” said Clara. “They’re all contracts. Payments and product delivery agreements with different planets, all billion and trillion-dollar deals. Here, take a look.”

The Doctor took Clara’s folder and, with each passing page, his eyes seemed to grow wider, his brows raised higher. “It’s an entire network of intergalactic trafficking, not just New Earth and the M87 Galaxy. Whoever set up this scheme, it spans throughout space and time.”

So they were dealing with an intergalactic people trafficker? Clara shuddered. “Can they do that? Is this another Time Lord?”

“Fortunately, no. My people weren’t too interested in rift activities. We can create our own dimensions so there’s no need to explore something as unstable as the rift. But since this is closely tied with Jack and his past, I bet you anything that it has to do with someone from the Time Agency.”

“Time Agency? What’s a –” Clara suddenly heard a buzzing noise. She looked at the Doctor. He’d heard it too, judging from the way he stilled and cocked his head toward the front of the room. It seemed to be coming from inside the rift manipulator, or at least from one of its compartments. The Doctor must have drawn the same conclusion, for he had taken out his sonic screwdriver and was pointing it directly below the machine’s keyboard. Several seconds later, a drawer that Clara hadn’t previously noticed on the machine, a small compartment about the length and width of her phone but probably tall enough to hold several stacked phones together, slid out from just underneath the keyboard area.

There was a device inside the drawer. “A hologram projector,” the Doctor said. “Fifty-first century technology, something from Jack’s time.” He took out the projector, placed it on the floor between him and Clara, and activated it.

The bluish light from the device projected a hologram of a handsome man with a full head of hair neatly cropped to bring out the sharp bone structure of his face, high cheekbones, and a slight smile curving his lips. But even in the holographic image, Clara could tell that the man’s eyes were cold. He was dressed in some sort of uniform, a flashy blazer with metallic rods as buttons, right down to knee-high leather boots that must have been impeccable and duly shined at the time of the recording. Clara wanted to like the man in the projection, but her gut feeling told her that he could not be trusted.

The image gave Clara and the Doctor a snide smile that confirmed her suspicions. “Glad you found me, Jack,” he started speaking, the greeting of a challenger before a fight. “You’ve probably figured out my operation here. I stole a bunch of technology from the Time Agency. Oh, and from your little team members. I would thank Toshiko for her rift manipulator, if I can. _If_ I believe in life after death.

“Now, here’s the deal. I’ve set up this trade to run on auto. I’ve reprogrammed the rift manipulator to do what I need it to do. I then go around and court planets for their criminal lists. Some I buy and use the list to supply the bodies, other places I strike a deal with the criminals’ loved ones so they can buy people to be jailed or killed in their loved ones’ place. Simple matchmaking, really. Interested? We’ll split the profit, 50-50, just like the old days.

“But I have a feeling you’d say no. You’d go on and on about how that Doctor of yours had changed you. And look, I get it, you have your little team to take care of, or whoever’s left of your team. If you don’t want me, fine. Go chase after your Doctor. See if he’s everything you dream he would be. But I warn you, Jack, you’re gonna regret choosing anyone over me.

“You have ten seconds to decide. Take my offer, you know where to find me. Refuse, then you’ll just have to watch my operation keep on going without you being able to lift a finger to stop it. Oh, and if you’re not Jack, then you only have yourself to blame. Here we go. Ten… nine…”

A red light on the hologram projector started flashing. Flashing red lights were never a good sign, and almost always meant something was about to blow up. And here was the Doctor, fiddling with his sonic screwdriver like he was trying to input or adjust something. The counting was down to five. “Doctor, what are you doing?”

“Trying to save our lives,” he answered. “Aaand… done!”

Just as the countdown reached zero, the Doctor pointed his sonic screwdriver at the device. Clara closed her eyes in anticipation of some catastrophic explosion. When none came, she reopened first one eye, then the other, to find that the device had disappeared.

“Sent it to somewhere else in the rift,” the Doctor said, like a child telling a parent he’d received top marks in his exam and was expecting a reward.

“How?”

“I know the code of Jack’s vortex manipulator, that wristband he wore that allowed him to hop through time and space. The person in the hologram knows that the code is tied uniquely to Jack. Nobody else should know it. In fact, Jack didn’t even know it. But I do!”

“So the only way for Jack to save himself was to use a code that he didn’t even know?” The logic did not add up for Clara, but she was glad that they were alive.

“Well, all Jack needed to do, if he was in my place, was to activate his wristband and send the projector into the rift. I had to do the extra step of inputting the code and use the sonic to trigger the transport,” the Doctor explained, as if it was perfectly normal for someone to escape death at literally the last second. With the Doctor being the Doctor, Clara considered, it _was_ perfectly normal.

Clara cast a glance at the rift manipulator. “So we’ve come all this way to find a machine that we can’t shut off. What should we do now?”

“We’re going to find the person who can.”

“You mean the person in the hologram? How?”

The Doctor brought his hands together in a clap. “Easy! He gave us a ton of clues! First of all, did you notice what he was wearing?”

“Uniform of some sort, flashy jacket, cowboy boots. Um…” Clara sifted through the mental image of what she had just seen. “Oh, and something on his wrist! Something like a band!”

“Very good, Clara! That man was also wearing a vortex manipulator. He’s a Time Agent, just like Jack. Which, by the way, makes complete sense why he would use ‘Time Agency’ as the activation code for revealing the hologram projector. And he’s not just your run-of-the-mill Time Agent. This Agent shared a past with Jack.”

“Do you know him?” Clara asked, recalling how the man seemed to have spat the word ‘Doctor’ each time he’d said it as if the name was poison. “He didn’t seem to like you much.”

“No, I don’t know him, and no, he most definitely doesn’t like me at all. Figures though, that’s what people sound like when they’re jealous.”

“Jealous? You mean –”

“An intergalactic criminal, agreeing to evenly split the profit with Jack? Who else can he be but someone who’s more than just a colleague or fellow Time Agent!”

The person’s vicious tone suddenly made a lot of sense to Clara. “A spurned lover then? Someone that Jack had dumped in pursuit after you –”

“Oi, I’m not involved in this!” the Doctor protested. “But yes, you get the basic premise. Now the question is, why would he go through all the trouble of stealing the rift manipulator and setting up a criminal trafficking business if all he wants is Jack’s attention? No, he was going to do it with or without Jack. He’s in it for the profit. It just happens that he’s a psychopath on the side.”

“And morally depraved,” Clara added. “So what do we do?”

“We need a bait, something to lure him here. Clara, what does he want most?”

What could he possibly want? “He probably wants you dead.” The Doctor’s grimace told her that he agreed. But this wasn’t a viable option. “Or Jack. Sounds like he was either willing to offer him full partnership in his trafficking business or would at some point totally turn on him.”

“Yes! So he wants Jack. We’ll get him Jack. Project Jack’s signature into his time. Hopefully he won’t be able to resist, in which case all we need to do is wait for the enemy to come to us.”

Jack? The Face of Boe, the tentacle… “Oh. Oh!”

The Doctor grinned. “Yes, Clara. Time to go back to New New York.”

-

“…so once we bring Boe’s tentacle here I will project his biogenetic signal from the TARDIS into the Time Agency’s 51st Century headquarters. He’s gone rogue but if he expects Jack to send him signals into the Agency, he’ll receive it. Then we wait for him to come and I will scan his biometric compositions and use it to activate the rift manipulator. Once I gain control over the rift, we’ll send all the New New Yorkers home.”

Sitting once again in the conference room inside the TARDIS, Jean Valjean half-listened to the Doctor’s plan. He had tried to focus on the present conversation more, but he could muster up neither the interest nor motivation that was necessary to engage him fully into the others’ strategizing. The Doctor appeared to have everything under his control, answering Clara’s _What if he doesn’t come?_ with _Oh, he will_. and Javert’s _How do we plan to subdue and arrest this foe?_ with _I’m sure we’ll figure something out._ The Doctor spoke with such confidence that there was no need for him to participate when he had no additional input.

When Valjean first saw the TARDIS up close, the bleakness of his past year’s life suddenly became unbearable to him. He had tried to take his unanticipated confinement in the rift-created world in stride, and had managed to succeed when he had assumed the Doctor would never come for him. But seeing the Doctor and the TARDIS now, realizing that his exile was no more than an error of time stream miscalculation (if he could even call it that)—Valjean had to force away bitterness and resentment that seemed to surface, unbidden, rising from the depths of his heart. He had been lost and forgotten in yet another prison, the space version of Toulon, while the world around him continued turning.

He did not hold anything against his travel companions; there was nothing to forgive. He’d even been delighted with his reunion with Javert, a sentiment he would not have thought possible to associate with encountering the inspector. Yet at the sight of the TARDIS—the vehicle to _freedom_ —something in him broke down.

There was never a rational explanation for his many escape attempts at Toulon. The fault was his impulsiveness, but it was not the cause. If he could recall those dark days at all, he would have likened the _bagne_ to this land of perpetual darkness, and the chance to break his chain, to scale down the seawall, to flee into the meadows, or even to run far enough away to have crossed from the galley’s boundaries into rocks and soil that whispered freedom… those instances were no different than hearing the beckoning of the TARDIS: _all of time and space, anywhere you’d like to go, anywhere but here_.

It had been five years since his release, six counting the phantom year he’d spent in this realm, but Jean Valjean felt as if he were a desperate soul, newly paroled into the wilderness again.

Around him, the Doctor, Clara, and Javert had come to agreement over something and they all stood. He imitated the action. He tried to avoid Clara’s sympathetic gaze, kind and compassionate eyes that seemed glued to his hair that, to her, had still been brown mere hours ago. He noticed the Doctor was in turn avoiding his gaze, as if he had judged and found himself guilty of committing a grave act of moral failure against him. Javert appeared focused on the details of their current plan, and Valjean found comfort in the familiarity of the inspector’s single-minded determination at crime-solving. But even Javert had been treating him differently, the ever-present wariness no longer borne of suspicion, but now of uncertainty.

He realized that those around him no longer thought of him purely as Madeleine.

Just as well, for over the past year, Jean Valjean and Madeleine had both become indistinguishable from _Jean_.

“– need to get back here as soon as we retrieve Boe’s tentacle,” the Doctor was saying. Valjean forced himself to focus on the conversation.

“And what about the prisoners?” Javert said. “I’ve learned that they are a vicious lot who sacrifices the weaker ones to the rift.”

“That’s why we have to be quick!” the Doctor responded. “I’ll steer the TARDIS right into the Senate chamber, then I’ll run out to grab Boe’s jar and we’ll come back here. Ten seconds at most! It shouldn’t be more than a few days’ time in this realm.”

“And if you don’t succeed in landing the TARDIS within the Senate?”

“Oh, come on, Javert, have some faith in me! I – hey, I saw that! No eye rolling. You too, Clara. Look, we’ll get back here as soon as possible. There’s no reason not to.”

“What about taking all the New New Yorkers into the TARDIS? We can rescue them now without reversing the rift,” Javert said. Valjean paid closer attention. This was a sound suggestion. Why had the Doctor not thought of it?

The Doctor, for his part, was trying hard to appear as if he was considering the suggestion. From years of dealing with dishonest tradesmen, however, Valjean knew what answer that evasive look would yield.

“That’s not possible. You see, Javert… the TARDIS, yes, she’s big, so much bigger on the inside! But things just don’t work this way. I can’t pack the ship with people like a rescue raft everywhere I go, or else I’d have done it many times already, saved everyone back in Pompeii! Or heck, saved everyone in New New York the last time I was here! But I didn’t, because time travel doesn’t work this way. I’d be creating and destroying fixed points in time everywhere I go, and that’s not allowed!”

By the look on Javert’s face, the Doctor had failed miserably at convincing him. Valjean wasn’t convinced either. It would seem most sensible to gather the remaining hostages and transport them home. If a fixed point in time could be destroyed, then by logic it should not be a fixed point.

“So neither time nor the future can be changed?” Javert pressed on, with the eagerness of an interrogator who had found a weakness in an arrestee’s alibi. “Then what of your actions? Of taking time’s laws into your own hands?”

“Oh but you _can_ change time! Just not the fixed points. I can’t guarantee that among the three hundred people in the complex there isn’t at least one person who’s supposed to be transported back via the rift as a fixed point event.”

“Should you not at the least try to find out?”

“I – look, Javert, just please believe me? We need to do this the slow way.” The Doctor started walking toward the door of the conference room. “Speaking of time, we’re wasting time by arguing. If we want to get the New New Yorkers out of here, then we should hurry.”

Javert made no effort to move. “No,” he said, his arms crossed defiantly across his chest. “I think, Doctor, you are forgetting a very important detail. We are not here only to capture a Time Agency renegade. There is also the matter of the traitor among New New York’s police force. Now, people with the most contact with, and thus the most information on, the police are those who have been arrested. Each of the hostages in the complex is an invaluable witness who may help solve our mystery. Witnesses are citizens to be protected, not forgotten and left to become sacrificial lambs.”

“So why don’t you stay with the hostages then?” The Doctor said, like a sullen child unable to get his way.

“And if I am correct and you miscalculate the landing coordinates of the TARDIS? How long will it take then? Ten days? Ten weeks? Ten months?”

“I don’t know, Javert! You’re so quick to criticize my piloting skills, so what you would do instead?”

“I don’t believe the prisoners should be left to their own devices,” Javert said. He turned to Valjean. “Valjean, you are their leader and guard. You know the prisoners. Stay with them until the Doctor returns.”

And have his freedom snatched away, _again?_

His words were out before he could think better. “No, I’m not staying another day in a prison I don’t need to be in.” If there was an edge of panic to his own voice, he chose to ignore it. Whatever misguided notion Javert may have had about the self-sacrificing saint, he was most definitely not that, and would never, ever willingly confine himself to the horrors of a prison.

Judging by the momentary confusion that flitted through Javert’s face, he was taken aback at the unexpected answer. “This is not about you, Valjean. It is merely the most sensible option. You have been successful at ensuring the hostages’ safety for the past year. Surely you can maintain order for a few more days.”

“No!” His voice sounded desperate even to his own ears. He shook his head, trying to calm himself. “No, Javert, I will not go back.”

The Doctor looked from Valjean to Javert, then back again to Valjean. “Right,” he broke the silence. “Madeleine’s not going back, that’s settled. Let’s just return to New New York as soon as we can, shall we? I promise we’ll be quick.” He made a half-twirl and managed to cross to the other side of the door.

“I’ll stay.” Javert’s voice hung thickly in the air. The Doctor turned back around. “Someone must protect the prisoners. I will wait for your _swift_ return.”

Valjean knew he was gaping at the inspector. What did Javert expect to accomplish by throwing himself into a lion’s den of hardened criminals? They would soon discover that he was not like them. He was still wearing his police uniform, for God’s sake! Whether in Montreuil-sur-Mer or New New York, a policeman’s attire was easy to determine. The dark would not be able to conceal his outfit for long, nor would it prevent the Enforcer of Justice from rearing his head at the most inopportune time. “You can’t be serious, Javert. They’ll destroy you in there.”

“I’ve spent years in a prison –”

“But not as a prisoner!” Valjean shouted. “You’re going to return alone. Do you expect no one to question you on what you have done with me? I can already think of at least four people who will place you on their hit list for suspicion of murder.”

“And is leaving the weaker hostages to the whim of the rift and the other prisoners not also murder? Withdrawing protection when one is in the position to grant it, that is also injustice.”

Valjean pinched the bridge of his nose, pressing away the building pressure there as he forced himself to think. He was determined not to return to prison, not here, not when he would have a lifetime of Toulon welcoming him back on Earth. Javert, on the other hand, was determined to act on his misplaced sense of duty and justice. With his mind made up, Valjean knew Javert would not yield. Nor did the Doctor appear willing to change his mind about transporting the hostages home by way of the TARDIS. Three opposing ultimatums.

During his days as mayor, Valjean knew that in order to advance projects and policy proposals, it was necessary to compromise. He sighed. He knew what he must do.

“I’ll remain as well,” he said. If he sounded like he had just pronounced death on himself, Valjean supposed that would be an accurate reflection of the sense of doom he felt inside.

The Doctor regarded him closely. “Are you sure?”

He returned the gaze, steady and unwavering. “Yes. Javert and I will both be safe. We will wait for your quick return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The villain in question is [Captain John Hart](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Captain_John_Hart_%28Torchwood%29) from Torchwood. I didn't originally plan to bring in another fandom into this fic, but he just wormed his way into the story. There's no need to know anything about Torchwood. The Doctor and Clara don't know anything beyond they're dealing with a Time Agent at this point.
> 
> 2\. Why can't the Doctor just save everyone by herding them into the TARDIS? My apologies if his non-explanation doesn't sound convincing, because personally, this is a question I ask a lot (and have shouted at the TV many a times) and have yet to receive a satisfactory answer from any of the episodes that could have had an easier, if not happier, ending if the Doctor just uses his TARDIS as a rescue ship.
> 
>  
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! Comments and thoughts are much appreciated.


	14. Convict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the investigation can move forward, Valjean and Javert must work through their reactions to the reality of the rift and to each other.

Valjean said nothing as the TARDIS faded from a solid structure into a faint outline, then disappeared from in front of them altogether. He did not turn toward Javert behind him.

When he finally spoke, Javert could barely recognize his voice. “We’ve just sentenced ourselves to prison, for an undetermined period of time.”

“You could have gone with the Doctor,” Javert pointed out.

“I know.” Two simple words, so devoid of emotion that Javert found himself wishing for the return of Valjean’s usually warm tone. He should back down, he knew, and focus on their present situation. They must discuss how to be most strategic in speaking with the prisoners to determine who among the police was responsible for betraying the New New Yorkers, so that when the Doctor returned to apprehend the mastermind behind the scheme, there would be no time for the accomplice to flee.

Yet seemingly with a mind of its own, Javert’s tongue pressed on: “You were going to abandon the prisoners to their own devices. These people who are our best witnesses to uncovering the traitor, you would leave them to sacrifice each other to the rift.”

Valjean’s shoulders stiffened, a physical manifestation of the inward blow that he suffered from Javert’s accusation. The moonlight did nothing to soften the tautness spreading across that strong back.

“They have my flashlight,” Valjean said, his voice tight.

“Which will only fall into the hands of the ones with power. Do you really believe the likes of Jacoby would protect the group selflessly? They would sooner use your flashlight to divert the rift toward one of the more helpless victims.”

“And so you decided to appoint me—without my consent, I should add—keeper of these prisoners? You have no idea what it’s like. You’ve only been here an hour, Javert. I’ve been here a year.”

“So what difference would a few more days make?”

“You know nothing!” Valjean shouted, turning around, and Javert suddenly found the few feet between them not nearly distance enough. He took an involuntary step backward, startled. He hadn’t expected such hostility from Valjean, and certainly not—his minded searched to place words to what he was detecting—such selfishness, harshness, and despair.

Surprise gave way to indignation. Javert bristled. If Valjean accused him of not understanding, then he was justified in hurling the same charge back at him. “I know nothing of what? Of solving a case? Of guarding a prison? Or of _being_ in a prison? Do I need to remind you how I grew up, where I came from?” he spat. “Are you truly so selfish, Valjean? When there are people to protect, would you abandon them just because you cannot endure the thought of remaining in prison for another day—a prison you now guard? Did I shirk from my responsibilities when I was assigned to the _bagne_? Do you think I fancied staying in the very hell I grew up in?”

When Valjean didn’t immediately react, Javert was prepared for three things. First, his hand was ready to grasp his cudgel, should Valjean choose to attack. He had not known any version of the man to be violent, but in this rift world, when the Doctor had reminded them that everything which passed through the rift was reduced to the darkest essence of itself, Javert would be remiss not to prepare for the worse of _Jean-le-Cric_. Second, he could back down. Valjean was, by all accounts, his only ally in this realm. Third—he tried to still himself from shaking even as his heart pounded quicker by the second—he could succumb to the visceral rush of anger that was overtaking him, the righteous wrath of a righteous man, as untainted in the eyes of the law as the convict before him was clothed in the filthy rags of his crimes.

Perhaps the Doctor’s hypothesis about the rift applied to both the just and the unjust. For against his better judgment, Javert chose to fuel his growing indignation.

“All these years, I hold onto one thing—just one!—that if I do my duty, God will reward me. I choose to stay because there’s still work to do. Do you think I _want_ to be here? Or even want your pity to stay here with me? Why are you here? Why didn’t you flee from this place just like you ran away from everything in life? Take the Bishop’s silver and flee! Or perhaps go back to your prison days when you made a hobby out of escaping. Or better yet, when you first entered Toulon, have you never given thought to the reality you left behind, the family you claimed to want to feed –”

“Enough!” Valjean bellowed, still too close to him, and Javert swore he was looking straight into Valjean’s unadulterated fury. It was strange, how he had gotten used to a Valjean free of rage and anger. He searched the contorted face for any trace of Madeleine. There was none.

Valjean squeezed his eyes shut, as if forcing calmness onto himself. It was Javert who didn’t feel the need to contain the roiling sense of injustice inside him, the injustice of being found irreproachable under the law of any country, planet, or time, and yet somehow always deemed less worthy than the convict. Valjean persistently got away with things, earning the universe’s forgiveness and a free pass to go along with it while he, Javert, was forced to suffer through his lot in life without as much as a look of sympathy from anyone. Damn Jean Valjean. The citizens of Montreuil-sur-Mer loved him. The Doctor loved him. Even the New New Yorkers loved him! Had the world no more regard for righteousness, for people like Javert who gave up what little he never had in order to walk the straight and narrow, who against all odds managed to remain blameless?

“Javert, you’re not yourself,” Valjean said, each syllable strained as if it took all of his strength to ground out the words. “Nor am I, it seems. Let us end this before we come to regret our words and actions.” His eyes were still closed, and Javert understood his words as the warning that it was meant to be, that even the patience of Saint Madeleine was about to run out.

For Javert, however, his patience had already run out. “Are you pronouncing judgment on me now, Valjean? Because I don’t conform to your expectations? Because you think I can’t possibly understand the misery of the gutter? The prison? The galleys?”

In the moonlight, Valjean seemed to be losing the battle of clinging to his goodness. Was this what the past year had done to him, stripping away the Jean Valjean that Javert had come to know, the man who could pass as a gentleman, mayor, and repentant sinner? He recalled the man passively listening to him, the Doctor, and Clara not half an hour ago, looking shell-shocked and sullen, as if the light and warmth of the TARDIS had caused him great discomfort. In the shadows, Valjean was able to play the generous host and protector of the prisoners; but inside the TARDIS, he had shown himself to be no more fit for the light than the vile creatures Javert had once guarded in Toulon.

Perhaps Jean Valjean was nothing more than one of those vile creatures after all.

When Valjean finally spoke, his voice was pained like the groaning of galley slaves put to work for too many hours under the sun. His eyes gleamed dangerously, like convicts receiving their initial lashes under the rack, still puffed up in self-righteousness before the prolonged punishment would inevitably dull even the most defiant of offenders.

“After all this time, Javert, and you still don’t understand. But why would you? You were never a prisoner. You were there, but you weren’t treated like scum, like an animal. You weren’t forced to work until exhaustion and then be given only dried beans and moldy bread to eat. You weren’t chained and held down like a beast. You didn’t spend days trying to remember what being human used to feel like. You didn’t have to watch your back every second of the day, trying not to appear too strong or defiant to the guards but not too weak to the other prisoners. You didn’t have to endure the pain of the lashes while tied to the rack—you got to inflict pain! You didn’t have to hold onto your hate because that was the only thing that kept you going, the only thing that reminded you you were alive.”

His arms crossed, Javert stared down at Valjean and his pathetic attempt at playing the victim. “You brought this onto yourself, Valjean. You broke the law.”

“So the punishment for theft is to strip me of my entire personhood? Is that the justice you so passionately believe in?”

“You have no right to speak about justice!” Javert snarled. “Convicts like you belong in the galleys. That is justice.”

Not one second after the words left his tongue, Javert knew he had misspoken. Although what he said was technically correct, it was not the complete truth. But before he had the time to retract his declaration, Valjean was up against him in an instant, rough hands gripping his shoulders, digging in painfully to force Javert down to his eye level, to stare straight into the face of Jean Valjean the galley slave of Toulon.

“Am I still a convict in your eyes?” There was a hint of pain in the voice that Javert chose to ignore. “Have I proved nothing to you these past few months? Can you not accept what you see before your very eyes?”

The _No, you’re no longer just a convict_ lodged like a rock in his throat, and would always remain unspoken as long as there was a part of him that still believed Valjean to be beyond reform. That part of him was there, however diminished since the beginning of their trip. His honesty prevented anything but absolute truth from leaving his lips. Any other man in Javert’s place would choose self-preservation. But even under the grip of someone so clearly on the brink of losing all control, Javert chose to remain silent.

But he knew better than to be held under Valjean’s power. Javert shifted his strength to his shoulders and tried to push himself up, but those hands weighed him down harder, preventing him from rising to his full height. Fine. If Valjean was expecting him to resist, then he would do the opposite. Giving in to the downward push, Javert crouched down quickly, sending Valjean off-balanced. His arms no longer restricted by the weight, he quickly found his cudgel and swung it with all his might, striking Valjean’s left calf, further disturbing his equilibrium and sending him crashing to the ground.

Something snapped in Valjean then. He fell with a snarl but pulled himself up quickly. Lunging forward, Valjean engulfed Javert into a full-body hold from behind, a merciless embrace, effectively disarming Javert when his arm that held the cudgel was constricted into his body by a grip like a boa tightening around its prey. “I said _enough_ , Javert!” he roared. His breath was hot against Javert’s face, against his throat.

Unable to move, Javert jerked himself backwards and forced Valjean to succumb to gravity. His back landed with a thud onto a patch of grass. He immediately rolled around before Valjean could recover, forcing the stronger man onto his back. The tumble had loosened Valjean’s embrace and Javert pulled his right arm back just enough to angle his cudgel toward Valjean’s abdomen. He dug in his weapon, hard.

Valjean cried out in pain, releasing his hold on Javert. Javert broke loose and was about to stand, but not before swinging his cudgel into Valjean’s jaw, keeping him down. A loud _crack_ echoed satisfyingly in the air. Blood from Valjean’s split lips splattered onto the wood.

A hand grabbed his cudgel, snatching the weapon from his grip, flinging it far away from them while another hand dealt a well-aimed hook into Javert’s face. A sharp pain in his groin followed when Valjean’s knee connected with his sensitive parts, sending him howling onto the ground, curling into white-hot pain.

Javert vaguely felt a hand grab him by the collar, yanking him up. Amid the haze, Javert thought the owner of that hand no longer resembled Madeleine. _Pardieu!_ What had he awakened in that man? The pain was still too great for him to stand. The hand held him mercilessly, dangling him by the neck. “So I’m a convict to you still…” Valjean’s eyes, inches away from Javert’s, narrowed into a glint of barely veiled fury. “Then perhaps I should play the part that you expect me to. What do convicts do to a captured guard? Should I experiment?”

The hand around Javert’s throat was tightening, so he ignored his pain the best he could and swung a hand into the base of Valjean’s skull, crashing their heads together with the force of the blow. Javert had expected the contact while Valjean had not, which gave him the advantage of angling his head so that one of Valjean’s eye sockets rammed into the bone on his forehead. Screaming, Valjean let Javert loose and brought a hand to cover his eye.

Javert crumbled to the ground, the pain in his groin coming back to him in full force. He watched, powerless, as Valjean regained his composure. He brought a palm to his face, finding wetness on his forehead and lower jaw. He darted out a tongue to test the painful throbbing on his lower lip, tasting the sweet tang of blood.

Staggering to his feet, Javert managed two steps before his knees gave out and he once again crumbled to the ground. Panic overtook him. He was in no position to run. He helplessly watched as Valjean steadied himself and stalked toward him, his back to the moons. Javert couldn’t make out the looming face.

“You can’t run, Javert.” Valjean’s voice was soft, but Javert had never found himself feeling so alarmed at the man. “Perhaps now you know what it is like to have your pursuer close in. To have the very freedom you were trying to obtain ripped away from you. I was just like you now, Inspector, every time I tried to escape. They beat me hard, much worse than your condition now. They cornered me. I wished they would kill me. But they didn’t. Do you want that, Javert? Should I kill you?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Valjean said nothing, his calm demeanor serving as an answer enough to counter Javert’s claim. He braced himself for the fatal blow. But Valjean looked thoughtful for a moment and his ferocity seemed to have retreated by several degrees. “I will have you know that I’m Jean Valjean, nothing more, and certainly nothing less. I am not a murderer. You will live.”

“My life or death is not for you to decide,” Javert spat.

“Is it?” Valjean asked, two simple words whispered in bitterness. He loomed closer, casting a moon-shadow on him. “I am by far the stronger man, and you are still in pain.” Valjean crouched down in front of Javert. A hand gripped his chin, forcing him to look straight at Valjean.

“There’s so much you don’t understand, and so much I can do to you now, to make you go through what I went through, if I choose.” Valjean paused, as if to consider what he would like to do with Javert. Javert couldn’t suppress a shudder. This Valjean, _Jean-le-Cric_ from Toulon, was capable of doing anything. He searched for any sign of Madeleine on that face; he found none.

Valjean seemed to have read his thoughts. “You want Madeleine to save you, do you not?” His voice was chilled like the air around them. “But you never considered Madeleine real, so how can he come to your rescue? Even if I offer you mercy, just like Madeleine would, are you going to take it? _Can_ you accept mercy, Inspector, a man who only sees virtue in justice, and nothing else?”

Mercy, offered by a criminal? That would be absurd.

Javert closed his eyes. “Do what you’re going to do, Valjean.”

Valjean withdrew his hand from Javert’s face and, for a long time, there was no movement. When Javert risked opening his eyes again, he found Valjean’s gaze roving over him, curious and full of pity, but the anger was gone.

“You truly cannot accept mercy, Javert. I can see it—it will kill you.” Javert thought he heard a sigh. Then Valjean’s hand was back on his face, his thumb swiping at Javert’s lips, un-sticking strands of his whiskers from the matted blood. The touch was gentle. “Understand this, Javert: I may _want_ to force you to experience the horrors of Toulon, but I will never act upon them. Call it something other than mercy if you so choose. But know that I do so because I was shown mercy. Madeleine’s God is also Jean Valjean’s God.”

“What do you want?” Javert whispered, croaked. He no longer understood the man before him.

“What do I want?” Valjean repeated. He stood up, searched with his eyes until he spotted Javert’s cudgel, and went to fetch it. Javert flinched when he returned with the weapon in hand, but Valjean only knelt down and placed the cudgel on the ground next to Javert. “I want you to trust all of me, the convict in Toulon as well as Madeleine the Mayor. They’re both the same man. Even _Jean-le-Cric_ has been redeemed by the mercy of God.”

Javert barked a mirthless laugh. “You speak as if you expect me to understand mercy.”

“No. No conditions, Javert.” Valjean shook his head. “I hope you will come to understand mercy, but I do not require it of you. And I also want you to know this: I choose to stay here of my own free will. You did not mock me into it. I will not tolerate any more such insinuation from you.”

There. The voice of the mayor spoken through the face of the convict. But even this was not a satisfying description, for neither title could fully capture the person before him.

Javert inclined his head. “Fair enough,” he said. He could accept that, though all signs pointed to the contrary, he had nonetheless erred in supposing Valjean was forced into staying. But this was the best that he, disciple of law and justice, could offer. There would be no embracing of mercy.

Valjean waited. “Is there nothing more you wish to say?”

What was it that Valjean still wanted? Javert had been thoroughly humiliated and defeated, sprawled on the ground like a marked prey. What more was Valjean going to demand of him?

Valjean picked up the cudgel and slipped it back into Javert’s hand. “You were angry because everything you did right was spat back in your face, or so you believed. But _mon cogne_ , you are more righteous than I have ever been, and I’ve always respected you for it, even when I hated you.” Strong hands grasped Javert’s waist, settling him gently into a sitting position. “Your dedication to the law is known by everyone. You have every right to take pride in it. Believe me, none of your work was in vain.”

Valjean didn’t seem to require a response, and Javert couldn’t find the strength to refuse the acknowledgement—delivered by a fugitive of the law of all people—that he had so craved. As a peace offering, he fished out the bottle of future medicine that the Doctor had given him prior to his departure, in the event that he should be injured by any of the prisoners. He lathered a generous amount onto his face and neck and felt the swelling decrease instantly. “Here.” He held out the bottle to Valjean, who took the bottle with a nod. As he watched wounds closed and bruises cleared from Valjean’s face, Javert wondered if the Doctor had known all along that the medicine was meant for injuries they would inflict on each other.

In the silence, Valjean still waited. It was as if he knew that when the words would finally come, there would be no stopping until Javert could fully unburden his mind. Eventually, the words did come.

“I was wrong,” Javert said, stiffly, as if testing out unfamiliar words. “About your being a convict.”

“But you’d meant it.” There was no condemnation in the voice, just a statement of fact.

“I did… it appears I have believed this all along,” Javert confessed. Each spoken word seemed to help clear his confusion, allowing him to give voice to the unease he had felt niggling at the back of his mind ever since the man before him had admitted to being Valjean. “I’ve been waiting for the convict to finally overpower the saint. I expected it as surely as the sun rises in the east on Earth. I believe this because I have seen him, have seen you, Valjean the convict, hiding beneath Monsieur Madeleine.

“I had believed you to be beyond reform. You’ve been here a year, Valjean, but for me, I have only begun to consider other possibilities about your nature no more than two days ago. And your change, I have always associated your better self with Madeleine. But Madeleine wasn’t here tonight… it was you! Jean Valjean the convict, who extended mercy.

“And I should have known. You, Jean Valjean the prison guard of this place, you are no Madeleine. Yet you _are_ Madeleine, but also thoroughly the man from Toulon. I don’t understand. A convict should never be able to be merciful. But it was the convict who stayed his hand, when you had every right to exact revenge. You baffle me, Valjean. I should spit your mercy back into your face, but I no longer even know whose face I should spit into.”

His hurried words, each syllable lagging behind the even faster racing of his mind, left him exhausted. The world was falling apart around him, and it was cosmic irony that the only anchor keeping him from going mad was Jean Valjean, the very reason for his anguish. He looked to the convict-saint in front of him, grasping with his sight onto anything that would keep him afloat.

Valjean did not reply. Instead, he shifted and sat down next to Javert. Slowly, he thrust an arm out at Javert’s eye level and, with his other hand, pushed up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing the scars underneath, marring the skin of his wrist.

“I will always have these marks no matter who I choose to be outwardly,” he said. “So you’re not wrong, I am a convict. Always, whether I’m mayor, time traveler, or guardian of the abducted New New Yorkers. But even as a convict, I will never be any more or less than what Madeleine is capable of being. He _is_ Jean Valjean.

“Madeleine understands the horrors of Toulon. He still wakes from nightmares. He prays to God for the forgiveness of sins he had committed as a galley slave. He commands over the New New York hostages. And he’s speaking with you now.”

Javert stared and, like a blurry vision coming into focus, suddenly saw clearly the man in front of him. “Jean.”

Jean Valjean— _Jean_ —nodded, solemnly, as if meeting Javert for the first time. “Yes. It’s me,” he said. “Please Javert, trust me. Let me prove myself to you until the Doctor returns. There is no point for us to undermine each other.”

Madeleine, he already trusted and admired. Javert was being asked to accept the convict—the same man, according to Valjean, no more or less Jean Valjean than Madeleine. He didn’t know if he could do it.

But he was willing to give it a try.

-

When Javert insisted on spending his first night alone, Jean Valjean thought nothing of it. He was as eager to distance himself from the inspector as Javert was to stay away from him, their fight having resolved in a tacit commitment to resume, however fragilely, their tenuous trust, but not in showing them how to interact with each other. Yet when two days had passed and Javert hadn’t once shown his face among the hostages in the main hall, Valjean started to worry.

“Where’s your friend?” one of the gardeners asked him as he wrapped up his weekly meeting with the cultivation team. He enjoyed sharing his knowledge about pruning and gardening with this group of five cultivators. Though the plant life here grew mysteriously despite the lack of sunlight, the trees and shrubs seemed to otherwise obey the laws of nature. Valjean had no difficulty making them flourish under his hands and, later, under his guidance through the work of several of his more horticulturally gifted apprentices.

“Javert’s very independent. He can take care of himself,” he answered honestly.

One of the women didn’t look so convinced. “Well, he’s gotta eat, doesn’t he? And aren’t you worried that the rift might go after him?”

“I am worried about him.” Another honest answer. “But Javert isn’t someone who takes well to coddling. Give him time. This place is a big change for him.”

The same woman shrugged in a _whatever you say_ fashion, though her eyes betrayed more concern than she thought she had let on. Valjean wondered how representative her thoughts were among the hostages. If the prisoners were willing to embrace Javert, would the surly inspector accept them in return?

He stopped by the kitchen after the meeting to fetch several strips of dried meat and two fruits. He had already searched most of the complex’s individual rooms yesterday without spotting even a hint of the inspector. Valjean suddenly remembered that Javert was also a consummate spy and could take well to hiding in the shadows. Unless he wanted to be found, Valjean knew his search today would be just as fruitless as the prior day’s. He hoped the food he now carried, whether as bait or a peace offering, would be enough to pull the man out of hiding.

Valjean was walking aimlessly around the wing of the building that led to the tower when a shadow spoke up behind him. “If I recall correctly, you like to leave your flashlight behind with the criminals. I did not compel you to remain in the rift so you will be taken away due to your own foolishness.”

He turned around and felt, rather than saw, Javert. Words that had been swirling in his mind suddenly failed to find their voice. None of the _Where have you been?_ or _How do you expect to investigate when you’re keeping away from the hostages?_ escaped his lips. “I brought you food,” he said instead, extending his hands.

Javert stared—or more accurately, Valjean felt the weight of the gaze—at the meat and fruits. For a long moment, he made no move to walk out of the shadows or to take the food. Feeling the tension thicken around them, Valjean wasn’t sure if he had unwittingly offended the inspector. But before he could retract his hands, Javert reached out and accepted the proffered items. “Thank you,” he said curtly. Javert then quickly turned around and started retreating back into his hiding place.

Discarding all considerations for the inspector’s privacy, Valjean followed. He wasn’t about to lose Javert again. He trailed the shadowed form into a room at the end of a corridor, a space that he had once heard Candace referred to as a “corner office.” It must have been the former work station of a high-ranked manager, for the room was spacious and large windows seemed to collect and magnify what light the moons emitted from outside. There was a couch and a small table in addition to the standard office desk and chair. It wasn’t difficult to determine how Javert had managed to sleep during the past two nights.

“Sit,” Javert said, the word coming out more like a command than the invitation it was probably meant to be. Valjean briefly wondered whether the inspector had ever entertained company while in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Did the man have any friends? He pushed the thought aside when the flashlight flicked on, illuminating Javert’s severe profile. He looked tired, as if he had spent every waking moment in the past two days fighting a reality that he did not belong in. But he was dressed as impeccably as ever, his back straight, and Valjean soaked in the air of quiet dignity that even the rift world could not rip away from Javert.

They settled themselves on the couch, one on each end of the furniture, both perched gingerly on the edge of their respective seat cushion. Valjean roamed his eyes about the room and fixed his gaze at the occasional blank spot on the wall as Javert ate. The man must have been famished to have abandoned his regard for societal propriety. Valjean willed himself to take on a more relaxed posture. Javert was unusually open at the moment. Valjean didn’t want to destroy this tenuous amity.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” he asked as gently as he could, after Javert had finished eating.

“No.”

It may be for the best, for neither of them was a good conversationalist, not the gruff inspector nor Jean Valjean when the occasion didn’t call for him to draw on his inner statesman. “I shouldn’t have hit you,” he apologized nonetheless.

Javert’s non-response left the apology hanging in the air; it stung more than an outright refusal to forgive.

“What you said was right,” he tried again, “all my sufferings were the result of my sins.”

He felt Javert’s gaze on him again, judging and assessing. Valjean stayed as still as he could, inviting Javert to take for himself the confession that he had refused to hear from the mouth of a convict. He felt those eyes piercing through his shirt of deer-sheep wool and onto the skin beneath, seeing the branding of his shame and the scars twisted and gnarled one on top of another due to years of punishment.

He was surprised at his lack of terror in submitting to Javert’s scrutiny. After what happened two nights ago, all of him had now been made known to his erstwhile pursuer, including the shameful part that still clung to hatred and resentment. He should thank Javert. If the inspector hadn’t needled him to the point of snapping, Valjean would have thought that part of him long gone. He’d spent the night after their fight praying to the saints and seeking forgiveness from God. He knew he had been restored through divine grace. He was less confident in winning the goodwill of the inspector.

Javert’s voice drew him out of his thoughts. “I will rejoin the group and commence my investigation.”

The truce still held then. Valjean turned his head, finally daring to look at Javert. “Thank you,” he said, noting that the bruise on Javert’s forehead had reduced to a slight bump, invisible to all except those who knew to look there for evidence of a recent fight.

Javert nodded stiffly. “Don’t thank me yet. You may soon regret losing a good number of your prisoners to death by my badgering questions.”

It took him several seconds to realize that Javert had made a joke. When he did, Valjean made no attempt to stifle the laugh that bubbled inside him. He thought he saw an answering twitch on Javert’s lips.

“Come, Javert,” he said as he stood up, offering a hand. “Let me take you to Candace.”

Javert accepted.

-

Valjean introduced Javert to Candace Thorpe. She was a petite woman will a full head of curly hair that may have appeared dark red in sunlight. She wore a no-nonsense expression that would cause even a man of Javert’s height and Valjean’s built to reconsider crossing her. When they walked into the room that she and Valjean had designated as a supply storage, Candace was busy rationing candles that the supply team had made from the latest batch of animal fat. Each group of five hostages would receive a candle tonight.

She did not bat an eyelash when Valjean used the second flashlight to illuminate the small room they were in, nor did she act surprised at seeing Javert’s police appearance. Without a word, she handed Javert a set of deer-sheep wool clothing, a razor made from wood and animal bones that was crude in its form but serviceable for its purposes, and several hygiene items.

“Bring your outfit to me when you’re done changing, Officer. I’ll make sure it’s in safe keeping.”

Javert had no difficulty believing her.

His new clothes fitted his body, down to two inner pockets inside his shirt, one on each side, where he could store his cudgel and flashlight. He kept his snuff box.

“Did Hargrave send you?” Candace asked when Javert returned to the room to deposit his uniform. Valjean had gone off to check on the prisoners.

“No. We made our acquaintances when we both started investigating the disappearances.”

“So you’re with the Doctor then?”

Javert hesitated for several seconds. “Yes,” he eventually said, having deemed Candace’s matter-of-fact mannerism as proof enough of her prior knowledge of the Doctor.

She continued, “He should have come sooner, when Greenfield was still the Police Chief. Hargrave made all the arrests, yes, but it was Greenfield who started the whole War on Crime crap that was just a thinly veiled attack against the poor and recent immigrants.”

This piqued Javert’s interest. “This Greenfield, I presume his full name is Thomas Greenfield?” Candace nodded. “I’m under the impression that Senator Laftner is not particularly fond of him.”

Candace laughed. It was one of those laughs that managed to convey the exact opposite of goodwill. “That’s an understatement. Greenfield was more or less fired. Eager to return to the civilian workforce, bullshit. He was asked to resign, all because he fired his deputy two months before that.”

“This former deputy police chief –”

“ _Current_ Deputy Chief, unless things have changed since I got here. Hargrave brought him back. Good bloke, the deputy. He knows how to do his job. But everyone knows Hargrave did it to curry favor with the Senate.”

Javert had always despised the politicking of those who were in positions of authority. He was spared from miring himself in such idiocy, he realized, thanks to the utter integrity of one M. Madeleine. He pushed away the thought. That was irony enough to ponder for hours, and he needed his attention on the present conversation if he wanted to get closer to uncovering vital clues on the disappearances.

“This Deputy Chief and the Senator. Are they related?” he asked.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. He’s Sam Laftner’s godfather. A longtime family friend.” Javert filed away this information for further consideration. Candace continued, “But all things aside, Hargrave’s a good man and I’m glad he’s Chief. We’ve had our run-ins, but he’s always fair. I’m actually glad Greenfield’s gone. That’s why I said I wanted the Doctor to have visited sooner.”

“And what would the Doctor have been able to do?”

Candace shrugged. “Save the world like he did fifteen years ago? Done something to improve Greenfield’s administration? Although I can’t imagine the Doctor entangling himself with politics.”

Fifteen years? Javert remembered that Candace had been taken by the rift two days before Valjean. If two days had only resulted in three years while Valjean’s few hours constituted an entire year, then the time streams between here and New New York must differ in more than simply a linear pattern.

“I am here to assist the Doctor,” Javert reassured.

“Don’t tell them that.”

“The other hostages? I agree. It would be unwise.”

Candace waved a hand as if to dismiss the concern that Javert hadn’t thought he was feeling. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Officer. Besides, you’re good. After that fight outside.”

 _Merde_ , the prisoners had seen him and Valjean fight! Were they close enough to eavesdrop as well?

“No one got close enough to figure out anything,” Candace said, as if reading Javert’s thoughts. “But you two did make quite a scene. Good for you though, Officer. I believe you’ve more than proven yourself. I was worried some of the more unruly folks were going to treat you as Jean’s lapdog. But seeing you put up a better fight against him than any of them had ever managed, I bet you can go up to them all with your list of questions and they’ll spill.”

Javert wasn’t sure if he should feel embarrassed, proud, relieved, or appalled. Judging by the way Candace was looking at him, whichever sentiment he now wore on his face was deemed comical.

“Don’t worry! It’s still obvious you’re on Jean’s good side. He was so worried about you when you didn’t show your face for two days. No one will dare harm you.” She handed a few candles to Javert. “Here, use these to trade for favors. Keep one for yourself. I know you have your light, but I wouldn’t show that to anyone but Jean.”

Unsure how to react, Javert mumbled an automatic _thank you_.

Candace waved away his thanks. “Good luck, Officer. I’m counting on you to get us out of here.”

“I will do my best.” He hoped he sounded convincing enough. It was up to the Doctor now, and Javert couldn’t muster up a lot of faith in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must have rewritten the fight scene five or six times. I hope I did both characters justice, since they're both so complex and layered and I really wanted to get all their hang-ups against each other out of the way so they can finally ~~see how perfect they are for each other~~ learn to work together. The quicker way would have been to whack them both in the head until they see the light. But, alas, that's not possible for fictional characters.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, I welcome your thoughts and comments.


	15. Prison Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean and Javert settle into a routine as they take advantage of the time before the Doctor and Clara's return to uncover the culprit behind the abductions.

When the Doctor and Clara didn’t return after the first week, they thought nothing of it. When a second week passed, Valjean was still hopeful while Javert started to suspect the Doctor had miscalculated the TARDIS’s landing coordinates again. When a full month had passed, both men resigned themselves to the possibility that it would be a long time before the Doctor would reappear.

They had settled into a routine. Hunt at moonrise, then a walk around the complex while the others fetched water and prepared food. Meal at the equivalent of noon, when the moons hung the highest in the sky. Then Javert would conduct interviews with the hostages while Valjean met with Candace to discuss the logistics of meeting the needs of every person at the complex—the hostages’ communal life continued to run as smoothly as it could under the circumstances. With each interview, Javert was able to get closer to determining a window of time when someone from the New New York police station might have turned mole. Supper was right before moonset. If resources were low, the hunters would set out for a second excursion. If food supply was in abundance, then Valjean and Javert would spend the evening at the tower. Sometimes they would walk along the river.

They sought each other’s presence instinctively, as if trying to hang onto sanity, to find confirmation in the other person that Earth was real, that Montreuil-sur-Mer, France, in 1820, was not a place only of their imagination. Though they spent many hours together, they rarely talked. When they did, their conversations were short.

They observed each other.

Javert may not have been aware of it, but Jean Valjean could hear the gradual change in his tone and choice of words—his childhood accent from the gutter days and the words of Toulon that were roughened by fierce wind and sea salt—coming back to Javert as easily as his body had taken on the clothes of panther leather and deer-sheep wool. He hunted like a wolf. But instead of using the whip of a prison guard or a cudgel of an inspector, his hands now employed bow and arrows with ease, forsaking King Minos’s double axe of justice in order to take up Artemis’s shadowed pursuit. To others, Javert the Hunter was exacting and unyielding. But Valjean saw a man of logic and precision. Javert released his arrows with confidence because he knew his calculations were correct.

And Javert would soften—Valjean marveled in wonder and gratitude—when they were alone. His defenses down, free from the constant need to protect his identity as an enforcer of the law from the eyes of condemned men and women, Javert would look almost relaxed. Even around Candace and the few traffic offenders that remained, Javert would still be wary. But to Valjean, Javert would grace him with willing trust, from the way he would never think to look out for his back whenever Valjean was paired up with him as his hunting partner, to how readily he would lend Valjean his flashlight without demanding that it be returned. Valjean always made sure to thank Javert afterwards. Sometimes, he would make himself believe that Javert’s returning nod had been accompanied by a barely visible smile.

They didn’t bring up what occurred That Night, of their fight. Valjean held nothing against Javert and had tried to show his esteem for the inspector through his actions. Javert, for his part, seemed to have seen past the monster that Valjean was during their altercation. If the inspector were someone less dedicated to the adherence of the law, Valjean would have even supposed that Javert had finally accepted his apology and forgiven him. But crimes were never forgotten, so he assumed Javert had decided to relegate the consequences of attacking an enforcer of the law into the same future after the end of their truce. Javert had taken to calling him _Jean_ even when they were alone, no longer a charade in front of the other hostages. If the inspector continued to view him as a convict, then at least the convict was now also seen as fully human.

As Javert continued to stay by his side, it became clear to Valjean that Javert had always had a singular devotion to him. Whether as justice personified who hunted him down or as a subordinate who deferred all honor to him as Mayor, Javert had behaved as if Jean Valjean had long ago been claimed as his. Even without formal roles, Valjean still detected this devotion, marked not by the threat of manacles or in the way he said _Monsieur le Maire_ laced with respect, but with every moment he chose to remain in Valjean’s presence, guarding what he deemed to be rightfully his against the unpredictability of the rift.

Here in this desolate realm, it was all too easy for Valjean to want that devotion to himself. But he knew better, and resolved to never take more than what Javert would willingly give. Let the inspector dedicate his days to solving the case. But the nights, the walks by the river and hours spent gazing at the stars, those favors had already been granted and Valjean was not so saintly after all to give them up.

 

Valjean was unaware of his incessant need to touch, Javert noticed, first with discomfort, then with irritation, and as the weeks passed, with stoic resignation as he allowed Valjean to reach for his hands or wrap his arm around Javert’s shoulder. Valjean also touched with his eyes. During the hunting team’s excursions, he could feel those eyes on him, a palpable presence from which he could not shake free even when he hid in the thickets waiting for a creature to emerge. If a beast loomed too close, Valjean was by his side in an instant. When he felled a prey, it was always Valjean’s hands that appeared to lift the beast and set it upon his shoulder, as if an enormous hybrid-creature was but a sack of grain.

When they counted stars atop the tower, Valjean would still stare. Javert pretended not to notice as he kept his gaze fixed on the constellations. But when self-control fled him, as it always did eventually, Valjean would take the treacherous shiver that Javert’s body betrayed as a reaction to the cold, as an invitation to be drawn into a closeness under the guise of sharing warmth. They did not speak of this, nor did Javert attempt to understand it in his mind. It was habit, and it was comfort. He had forced Valjean into remaining in the man’s personal vision of hell; the least he could offer was his inexperienced, stiff, and inadequate company.

After That Night, Javert had stopped trying to understand Valjean. Or, more accurately, he had ceased all attempts at putting the man into categories or devising words to label the different sides of him. He didn’t realize when precisely the convict, the mayor, the saint, the sinner… had simply become Jean. And Jean, while not tame or safe, especially not the parts of him that flourished in this dark world, was nonetheless good. A good lawbreaker. If ever there was a contradiction, it would be he. And Javert was drawn like a student to the books as he studied Valjean, drinking in paradoxes and impossibilities and things that should never make sense but somehow did, when it came to the singularity that was Jean Valjean. He caught himself calling Valjean by his Christian name when they were alone about a week ago, but suspected he may have already been doing so for longer than he had noticed. With that, an invisible wall seemed to have crumbled between them. Javert found that he didn’t mind it so much.

Sometimes, his instincts would tell him that Valjean wanted more. Javert would stop those thoughts promptly. There would be no _more_ in the future, only death in the galleys in 1823. He shouldn’t even allow Valjean to get close. He blamed his missteps on the misery of this rift dimension. It had weakened his resolve into that of a starved man being offered bread. And he knew—if Valjean decided to give him more, he would be helpless to resist taking in every morsel of it.

“When do you think they will return?” Valjean asked one day when they were at the tower, initiating one of their rare conversations.

“One day closer than yesterday,” Javert replied.

“Yes,” Valjean murmured. The air was cold on this night, as it was every night. He drew Javert closer. “I used to think the same thing, when I first arrived Toulon, then again around my eighteenth year. Those other years in between… I didn’t count.”

“Is this how you see yourself here? A prisoner serving his sentence?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it brings back memories, like I never left the galleys.” He shook his head. “Do you?”

“No,” Javert replied. “I am here to keep the hostages from annihilating each other. I am here to continue our investigation. And so are you.”

“And yet you insist that I’m the self-sacrificing one.”

They fell silent. Javert was neither willing to agree nor able to disagree.

“I’m going to sleep in one of the rooms tonight,” Valjean announced after some time.

Javert took out his flashlight and offered it to him. The rift hadn’t been active for several days, but he had seen it attempt to abduct hostages eighteen times over the past month. They had always taken the necessary precaution.

Valjean’s gaze lingered on the object; he made no move to take it. “You’re welcome to join me, if you wish,” he said. His voice was hesitant.

“If you’re seeking company, perhaps Candace –”

“To sleep, nothing more,” Valjean interrupted. “And Candace is a colleague. My fellow prison guard, as you’re so fond of calling us. But you –” He regarded Javert uncertainly. “You’re… a friend.”

 _Friends do not betray one another_ was Javert’s first thought. Nor would a friend condemn another to death upon the end of their intergalactic journey. The image of what he read on the TARDIS monitor flashed across his mind. He had learned secrets he shouldn’t know. He had been presented with indisputable proof of what cruelty he was capable of.

“I apologize, I’ve offended you,” Valjean said, withdrawing his arm from around Javert’s shoulder.

“No, the fault is mine.” Valjean was looking at him with uncomprehending eyes. These eyes had grown kinder over the past month, the perpetual shadow of a fugitive regarding his captor finally gone. He had hated the sight of cold fury that was there, that night. He wondered if what he was about to say would bring the same coldness back. He steeled himself. Well, he would find out.

“I turn you in, when we return to Earth,” Javert said, bluntly, for there was no other way. “I become the treacherous Brutus. And you are sent to Toulon, for life.” For far too short a life, he chose not to add. “I’ve seen this in our future, during one of the Doctor’s careless moments. I cannot… there is no way to change what has already been determined. To provide you with illusions or false hope will only add to my transgressions. So you see, we cannot be friends.”

Javert expected Valjean to shut off all emotions from his face. Or a full flare of anger, this time rightfully pummeling him without restraint, changing his own future with Javert’s out-of-time death. He did not expect Valjean’s hand to find his free hand, warmth still offered willingly, weaving their fingers together.

“If this is what you believe, then I will respect your boundaries. But you didn’t reveal anything I don’t already know.” At Javert’s wide-eyed stare, Valjean explained, “My arrest, it’s part of the stipulation of our truce, is it not? I was never under the illusion that you will not do what justice demands once we return to Earth. You’ve made it clear on the day you extended the temporary peace. I’ve condemned myself the moment I accepted your offer. And no, _mon cogne_ , I don’t regret it.”

Javert recalled the same man who, only a month ago, had despaired of spending more time in this dark prison. Jean Valjean on the day of the TARDIS’s arrival would have flown away with the Doctor and Clara if Javert hadn’t insisted on staying. And by extension, for all that he was a repentant sinner, Valjean wasn’t someone who would willingly consign himself back to the galleys. He had even thought to harm Javert once, desperate to never return to his nightmare. And yet the man seemed to have found peace in the limbo of their truce. He was able to relish his freedom—and accept Javert, his captor!—despite knowing with grim certainty of what loomed ahead.

Valjean had attributed his immunity against despair to his faith. To Javert, it seemed too simple of an answer. Was that all there was to Jean Valjean, and not some superhuman power like the Doctor’s ability to face a thousand deathly traps and still survive, or even Clara the Time Traveler’s ability to brave untold dangers? For all that Javert claimed to follow the way of the Lord, he realized he did not understand anything other than the justice of God.

And justice was all he had to cling onto.

“There’s no other way,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Valjean’s hand gave a reassuring squeeze.

“I know.”

They occupied separate rooms that night, two private offices adjacent to each other; the main hall was too oppressive to return to. Javert spent his sleepless hours staring out of his room’s windows, looking at deer-sheep grazing by the river. Life did not make sense anymore. He had tried so hard to rise from his shame by doing what was right, and all it had earned him was a tortured mind. It was the criminal who had found peace, slumbering away not ten feet from him on the other side of the wall.

Arresting Valjean would still be the right action, that much he still believed in. But he had not expected to get to know the (good, merciful, kind) man behind the criminal records, and in this desolate realm, he could not tear himself away from the only man who shared knowledge of their planet, their world. Valjean had called him friend. Was that what they were now? If he looked to the Law to justify what he was going to do when they returned to Montreuil-sur-Mer, then where could he turn to find absolution from the immorality of betraying a friend?

 _Please show me another way_ , he prayed, to Valjean’s God. If it worked for an ex-convict, then perhaps he would find salvation yet.

-

“So what do we have thus far?” Jean Valjean asked, about two months into their investigation of the abducted New New Yorkers. Javert had been insistent on not including Candace into their confidence, something he had objected to for days, but eventually relented when the inspector reminded him that there was only one experienced police investigator in their midst, and that Valjean was very much not that person.

Valjean had never doubted Javert’s professional excellence. What he had to keep himself from divulging to Javert was how much he had come to admire him. True to his word, Javert had set aside all personal animosities while they remained time travelers, tolerating his presence even in this confined realm. Javert had his own flashlight and the hostages all either accepted him or feared him (Valjean suspected it was more the latter), so he could easily hide himself in an obscure part of the complex or wander outside. Yet apart from those initial two days of self-exile, Javert had chosen to stay by Valjean’s side, gazing at stars with him and remaining civil. Jean Valjean was grateful, but he did not know how else to demonstrate his gratitude aside from thanking Javert profusely each time he lent him his flashlight or extending his offer of friendship—though the inspector had yet to accept it—as a standing invitation even as he had already committed himself to relate to Javert as more than a mere acquaintance.

Today, Valjean decided the best way to thank Javert was to assist him in piecing all the information the inspector had gathered, hoping that a few hours’ time of detective work would yield some answers for their investigation. Hiding themselves far away from the others in a room so small that Javert’s flashlight was able to illuminate it in its entirety, Valjean and Javert set to work.

“I have spoken with over a hundred witnesses. Eight of them were serving life imprisonment sentences and were taken by the rift while in maximum security prison. Sixteen were taken from low security prisons. Twenty-nine were paroled offenders of minor crimes taken either from their home or on the streets of New New York. Forty-three were once arrested but no longer under the judgment of the law; I included Candace in this category. The rest were traffic offenders or citizens documented for non-criminal matters.

“I have constructed our primary timeline. All of them, without exception, were taken by the rift within the past eight months in New New York’s time. I consider this consistent with what we learned from Chief Hargrave and Novice Hame. They noticed citizens disappearing six months ago. I relegate the two months’ difference to the hidden nature of the abductions when they first began. So we can conclude that whatever happened eight months ago may have prompted the betrayal from within the police.”

Javert recited everything from memory; there was no pen or paper in this place. Valjean recalled that even in Montreuil-sur-Mer, Javert would submit his written report before regurgitating its content without as much as missing a minor detail. Valjean allowed himself a moment of awe before refocusing on the information being presented to him.

“In terms of when each of the abductees was first arrested, the traffic offenders were the most unreliable in recalling when they had been issued speeding tickets. Those condemned to life in prison had mostly committed their crimes over a decade ago. I found these two groups of witnesses unhelpful toward my reconstruction of a secondary timeline; I did not pursue further interviews with them. As for the others, many of the paroled offenders and those still completing their sentences in low security prisons were arrested between six months to three years before Hargrave became New New York’s Police Chief. Those who have been fully absolved by the justice system dated their run-in with the police further back, but I noticed that none had been arrested earlier than six years prior in New New York’s time.”

Valjean considered the implication of that final detail. He ventured a guess. “So whoever turned New New York’s arrest records over only had access to files from six years ago.”

“Possible,” Javert mused. “I am uncomfortable with forming conclusions at this point, as my sample size is still small when compared to all of New New York’s arrested criminals. But among the fewer than three hundred witnesses confined to this realm, the definitive lack of offenders arrested more than six years ago does seem to constitute an oddity worth considering.”

“Do you plan to speak with the rest of the witnesses?” Valjean asked.

“I don’t see why not, given the time we have on hand. But Monsieur, we must not forget that those who are serving life sentences were arrested more than six years ago.”

“Yes,” Valjean replied, the only word that came to mind as he cast Javert a furtive glance to determine whether he was aware of having addressed him as _Monsieur_. Valjean, sitting in the only chair in this room along with the accompanying work desk, did not miss the parallel of their current interaction compared with Javert the Inspector’s weekly meeting with him. Javert would be standing several feet away from him, just as he was doing now, with his arms folded behind him, giving his report. For a brief moment, Valjean could almost believe they had been transported back to the mairie.

Javert pressed on. “This individual we are trying to uncover—if he or she can access files for those serving the harshest sentences, then it does not make sense that the same person would be denied access to arrest files prior to a certain date.”

“Perhaps the person is working backwards?” Valjean suggested. “Hand over the most recent arrest records first, and turn to older files when the rift needs more victims?”

“Your thoughts are logical, Monsieur, but my instinct tells me there is something more.” Javert started pacing the room, still seemingly oblivious to his slips of tongue when given more pressing mysteries to ponder. Valjean remembered those rare moments when the inspector would allow himself to move about in Madeleine’s office. The pacing seemed to focus Javert’s mind on working through more complex problems. “Six years ago. The year five billion fifty-nine must be significant.”

“Perhaps Candace would know?”

Javert cast him a sidelong glare. “Will you never stop insisting bringing her into our investigation, Jean?” With that, the illusion of being back in Montreuil-sur-Mer was shattered. Valjean realized he didn’t mind it so much. “Very well, I will speak with her. But there is someone else I need to interview.”

“Samuel Laftner?”

Javert stopped pacing. “Yes, him. Where have you hidden him? If you hadn’t mentioned your and Candace’s plot to keep him safe from the other prisoners, I would have long thought the Senator's son lost to the rift.”

“He’s in one of the rooms at the far side of the complex, the deserted section you walked through on that first day when you came here. Candace and I visit him everyday. We try not to let the others know about it. They only know he’s alive and is somewhere in this prison.” He quickly added, “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. There was simply never a need to bring this up.”

Javert waved away the apology. “I have plenty of witnesses to interview. But I do believe he may be able to offer additional information, or at the least a fresh perspective.” He walked over to the corner of the room and picked up the flashlight, signaling the end of this portion of their investigation. “When can I visit young Laftner?”

Valjean stood up. “Now is as good a time as any. But we’ll need to go outside and enter the complex from the far end. Fancy a walk, Javert?”

-

Samuel Laftner mostly kept to himself.

Valjean addressed Samuel as if he were an adopted son, using that warm tone that Madeleine reserved for showering praise on his factory workers. “I see you’re well, Sam. I want to introduce you to my friend, Javert. We used to know each other from my past.”

“Yeah, I know. You two fought, a couple of months ago.” Javert grunted something noncommittal while Valjean looked embarrassed at having been reminded once again that the entire complex now knew of their… altercation. How did the boy, who was exiling himself in a windowless room with only candles as a source of light, know about the fight? Javert decided to place the blame squarely on Candace.

The boy held out a hand. “Sam Laftner. Nice to meet you, sir.” He was thoroughly a politician’s son, Javert decided. Although knowing nothing of Javert, Samuel was able to perceive right away that he was not a criminal. Javert took the hand and was met by the confident grip of a well-bred aristocrat-in-training.

“Likewise,” Javert said automatically. He studied the boy’s face. In the candlelight, Samuel looked older than his years, but his eyes were still bright and his features handsome, reminding Javert of what a younger Senator Laftner may have once looked like. He had a thick head of curly hair that appeared blond in the dim lighting, however, a feature that was decidedly not like his father’s neatly coiffed brown hair. Samuel was tall, almost the same height as Javert, but much thinner and slender in built, like a twig that could be easily snapped in two.

“What can I help you with, sir?” Samuel asked, clearly pleased to have company.

“I have been interviewing New New Yorkers who have been taken to this realm.” Javert explained, “Standard questions. I hope to determine who in New New York either triggered the abductions inadvertently or betrayed its citizens.”

Samuel’s eyes widened. “You can do that? I thought no one has a clue who’s behind this.”

“Not yet, Monsieur Laftner, but I promise you I will get to the bottom of this. Jean and I are both committed to returning everyone home. For now, I am trying to determine when, in New New York, it all started. I need your help.”

Samuel was gaping at him like one of those fish that Javert was now very skilled at spearing out of the river. He wondered if, as some sort of coping mechanism, the boy had resigned himself to never being rescued in order to maintain sanity in this place.

It took several more seconds for Samuel to snap back into reality. “Oh, how rude of me! Please, Mr. Javert and J… _Mr._ Jean, make yourselves comfortable.”

“How long have you been here?” Javert asked as he sat down on the room’s sole chair, while Samuel sank into his mattress and Valjean leaned against the door.

“Three or four years, I believe. It’s hard to tell. I used to keep track of the days according to the pattern of the moons. But I gave up after a year or so.”

Three or four years. “You were here prior to Candace’s arrival.” Samuel nodded. “How did you manage to avoid being sacrificed to the rift?”

The boy shrugged. “There were plenty of people at first, like hundreds of them. It wasn’t like how things are now, back then, no one worked together. People stayed inside this building to protect themselves from the beasts. Other than that, we avoided each other.”

“So you had shelter. And for food?”

“I’d fish,” Samuel said. “I’m a good swimmer. I managed to swim all the way to the other side of the river once. I don’t think anyone else had ever done it.”

The river? It was easily half a mile wide. Even the Doctor and Clara had needed a future-world contraption to fly over the massive span of water.

“Just once though,” Samuel added, likely perceiving Javert’s incredulous expression. “Never wanted to try that again. But at least I know I can do it, if I’m ever desperate enough to have to try again.”

Javert decided to let the matter drop and continued with his interview. “When were you taken, in New New York’s time?”

“June 26, five billion sixty-five.”

Javert quickly calculate the dates. This would be several months before the TARDIS’s arrival. “Did you do anything out of the ordinary that day?”

“Not that I remember. I was scheduled to leave for New Paris on an intercontinental racing tour the next day, so I had dinner at my dad’s and was going to head home to pack. The rift took me right after the meal.”

“So you do not live with Senator Laftner?”

Samuel shook his head. “Not since I was eighteen. That was when I turned pro. You know, professional racecar driving. Dad and I get along well enough. It’s just, well you’ve met him, once you get him talking, he wouldn’t stop. I’d rather live by myself and visit him every once in a while.”

Having never been fond of his parents, Javert could understand the appeal of living by oneself. “Did you meet anyone else on the day of your abduction?”

“Besides the other racers and the usual crowd?” Samuel looked as if he were about to say no, before pausing and remembering something. “I stopped by the police station to see my godfather, to let him know I was going on a trip. But that was a short visit.”

“Do you visit often?”

“Nope, it’s just like visiting dad. I like him, but I don’t need to spend every moment with him. But he’s cool with me popping in once in a while. He’s mostly a desk cop, doesn’t go out much.”

Javert then thought to ask about the significance of the six-year mark that he and Valjean had uncovered, but realized that, being twenty when he was taken, Samuel would have been no more than a child when the political reshuffling of New New York’s police department had happened. He paused to let any further question to come to mind. He could think of none.

He stood from his chair. “Thank you, Monsieur Laftner. You have been most helpful.”

“Glad to be of help. But sir, please stay. I – it’s good to have visitors.”

Javert glanced at Valjean, who had been observing the interview without interjecting. Understanding Javert’s silent question, he spoke up, “Sam has quite a few interesting stories about the, ah, misadventures of New New York’s police department.”

Javert could see no harm in keeping young Laftner company. “Very well,” he said as he sank back into the chair. “Please, Samuel, tell me of these misadventures.”

Samuel beamed, then proceeded to tell Javert more than he would ever want to know about the incompetence of New New York’s police force.

-

“Five billion fifty-nine, what significance does this year have for New New York’s criminal justice system?” Javert asked, without preamble, as soon as he entered the supply room and ascertained that Candace was the sole occupant in there. Candace had shown herself to be a practical soul who liked to get right to the point. Javert was never fond of aimless small talks.

Today, Candace was sorting deer-sheep shirts that the clothing team had produced. She held up a shirt and scrutinized it under the candlelight. Satisfied, she placed the shirt onto a pile of similar clothes.

“Fifty-nine,” Candace searched her memories as she sorted and folded the clothes. “Nothing specific comes to mind. On a general level, that was the year when New New York finally recovered enough from when the Face of Boe saved all the remaining survivors from the trapped motorway.”

Javert recalled similar words spoken by Novice Hame when he had first arrived New New York. The Doctor’s previous visit to the city was twelve years prior, and it had taken the citizens six years to sufficiently rebuild New New York into a governable state. That would be five billion fifty-nine. He also remembered another detail that Novice Hame shared: the Senate did not hold elections until three years after that, in the year five billion sixty-two.

“Who was the ruling authority from fifty-nine to sixty-two?” he asked.

“More or less the same folks, but without the titles,” Candace said, her voice filled with the cynicism of a community organizer, never hopeless, but wise enough to understand that whoever held formal or informal authority, those in the positions of power would do the poor, those on whose behalf she had so passionately advocated for, damage and injustice.

“Senator Laftner, then. And Senator Tau? Had he immigrated to New New York yet?”

Candace shook her head. “Not in fifty-nine. He arrived in sixty-one if I remember correctly, just in time to campaign for the first ever election. Brilliant tactician, down to catchy slogans and free giveaways at all of his rallies.”

“Hargrave?” Javert hazarded a guess, even though he already knew the answer.

“Nope. He was just a junior officer then. But now that you mentioned it, the police force was already in place by fifty-nine. Earlier than that actually. They kept order while New New York was being rebuilt.”

“I see.” That was the answer Javert had been looking for. “So New New York’s police force was established in five billion fifty-nine while _de facto_ police officers had been enforcing law and order prior to that. Would you say this is accurate?”

“Yup, it’s accurate.” She picked up a pile of folded clothes and placed them into a basket at the back of the room. These shirts would be distributed to prisoners who had signed up for replacement clothing. She continued speaking as she worked, “Officer, I know you’ve been trying to figure out the timing of everything. If your question is about the life-sentence criminals, I can tell you that they were arrested and sentenced under the police equivalent of martial law dating all the way back to fifty-three. Things were rough back then, with rogues trying to take advantage of things. Greenfield cracked them down.”

“Greenfield, he was the first Police Chief?” Javert asked.

“The only Chief, until the scandal I told you about. He tried, he really did. But one person and a team of ragtag police trainees can only do so much. I don’t dislike him for that. I blame him for always letting the rich and powerful off the hook while constantly crying about no money for his department.”

Javert thought back to the horrifying car ride that the Doctor had suffered them through. He noticed belatedly the inexplicable lack of consequences for having broken what he assumed would be dozens of traffic rules committed by the Doctor’s driving. “Despite what you believe about Chief Hargrave as the more diligent law enforcer, the problem you described still persists,” he pointed out. “We were given a police vehicle to travel in during our stay in New New York. Our driving skills left much to be desired, and yet we were not stopped by the police for breaking traffic law.”

“It’s the police logo on your license plate. Either that or one of the officers recognized the model and built of your car. They do that with the Senators and their families. It’s unfair, I tell you. But what can we common people do?” Candace picked up the last of her folded clothing piles and placed it into a basket. She had four filled baskets. She stacked them in twos. “I gotta go distribute these, Officer. Where’s Jean? Did he leave you to go to that mythical tower of his?”

 _Mythical tower?_ “Is there more than one tower in this building?”

Candace raised her brows. “You mean you see it too? Jean always talks about it as if it’s a real place attached to this complex. But to everyone else, this is just a plain old office building, no tower. We’ve all been outside.” She stared at the piles of clothes in thought before flicking her eyes up to meet Javert’s. “Maybe it’s a time thing? You both came with the Doctor from the same time and place, right? Whatever forces that control this world must have created something from your time that only you two can see.”

 _There is a staircase here… can you see it?_ Valjean’s question on his first day echoed in his mind. This place never ceased to get stranger by the moment, no matter how long Javert had thought he had overstayed his welcome.

“It’s good for him. You. You understand parts of Jean that none of us can. He’s so much happier with you here.” Before Javert could allow himself to consider how ridiculous Candace’s claim was, she added, “Mind giving me a hand with these clothes? We can continue to talk if your questions are not classified. Or we can resume later tonight.”

Javert opened the room’s door, then walked over to Candace and picked up one of the two stacks. “No need, I believe you have sufficiently answered my questions, thank you.” He nodded toward the exit. “After you, Mademoiselle Candace. Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've mapped out the rest of the chapters -- barring the characters being uncooperative, the story will be 20 chapters plus an epilogue. The end is in sight, w00t!
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, comments and feedback are much appreciated.


	16. The consequences of miscalculated coordinates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Clara run into a delay in retrieving Boe's jar. The extra time changes Valjean and Javert's truce.

“Novice Hame!” The Doctor shouted in surprise when he saw her upon opening the TARDIS door. This was a bad sign. “I’ve come to fetch something. May I ask, where are we?”

“Doctor,” she returned the greeting, clearly happy to see him. “We’re in New New York’s hospital.”

The Doctor didn’t need to turn around to know that Clara was giving him the _I told you so_ look. “The hospital! Splendid. Well, I’d love a tour, but not today. I was hoping to go to the Senate chamber, actually. It seems as if I’ve slightly miscalculated my landing coordinates. I’ll be off now.” He turned back toward the TARDIS. Yes, Clara was most definitely giving him the _I told you so_ look. He huffed. He wasn’t that far off, not this time. Probably a couple of miles too far to the north. He’d only need to adjust the TARDIS navigation minimally.

Novice Hame called after him, “Perhaps you would like to wait half an hour, Doctor? The Senate is currently in session. Unless you were planning to speak with some of the Senators?”

He turned around. Half an hour? If a few hours in New New York meant a full year for Madeleine, then half an hour could easily mean months! “Oh no, I most definitely wasn’t planning to speak with the Senators.” He scowled. “Tell me, do those long-winded Senators even end their meetings on time? I’m on an urgent mission here.”

“They never end on time,” Novice Hame said in such a matter-of-fact tone that the Doctor found himself plotting ways of breaking into the Senate chamber by switching on the TARDIS’s invisibility setting. Actually, that wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Thank you, Novice Hame. It’s good to know. Not good that they’re always late, but good to know that they’re always late, if you know what I mean.” He made yet another attempt to get back into the TARDIS. “Look, I really have to go, would love to talk, but not now. I’ll explain later. Bye!”

He closed the TARDIS door behind him before Novice Hame had the chance to reply. “Right,” he said to Clara as soon as he caught his breath. “Off to the Senate. If I end up landing the TARDIS right into the middle of a circle of Senators, I’m going to need you to distract them while I go fetch Boe’s jar.”

“Me?” Clara objected. “What am I supposed to tell them? Sorry for interrupting? Why don’t you tell them some of your awful jokes while I go fetch Boe’s jar?”

“Oi, my jokes are not awful!” The Doctor circled the console until he found the lever that controlled the invisibility setting. He turned it on. “How about this: Whoever the Senators direct their questions to will be responsible for distracting them while the other goes to take the jar.”

“So what are we supposed to tell them when they see us stealing the relic of the city right under their nose?”

Oh, he hadn’t thought of that. Clara had such good common sense, though he would never admit it to her in a million years. Not that this was relevant to them anyway. Shouldn’t she know by now that having a plan for everything only meant that none of it would come through? “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” He punched in what he hoped was the right—and exact—coordinates this time. As an afterthought, he remembered to activate the parking setting that he almost never used, which River would call ‘turning off your emergency brakes.’ If everything went smoothly, they would land right inside the back room where Boe’s tentacle was kept, quietly, away from the Senators’ scrutiny.

“Let’s hope for the best, shall we?” the Doctor said as he set the TARDIS to fly.

There was the violent shake at the beginning, as usual. But once the TARDIS took flight, everything went smoothly, and then… a perfect stillness. Had he managed it, finally, to fly his TARDIS incognito and landed it without that telltale whirring noise? The Doctor switched on the monitor and checked where he had landed on the screen. The familiar shape of Boe’s jar greeted him. Letting out a cheer of success that probably sounded a bit too smug, not that he didn’t have the right to, the Doctor looked at Clara with a finger to his lips, then tiptoed toward the TARDIS door.

The door—the blasted door!—gave a loud creak as he exited the TARDIS. Belatedly, the Doctor realized he no longer heard voices engaged in a contentious debate in the background. There was first silence, then the scraping back of chairs. As he started to hear footsteps, the Doctor raced to grab Boe’s jar and almost made it back to the TARDIS –

“Who are – oh my God, we have a thief!” A shrill woman’s voice screeched. “Guards! Somebody call the guards!”

More footsteps followed and, within seconds, the Doctor found himself facing all five of New New York’s Senators.

“Er… hello everyone! Senators! As you can see, I’m on a mission here. I’ll be right off –”

“Doctor!” Two voices shouted in unison. Laftner’s in surprise, and Tau’s in warning.

“Doctor? _The_ Doctor?” the woman who called for the guards spoke, clearly unwilling to believe that the legendary hero who once helped the Face of Boe save New New York was the offender caught red-handed in the middle of an act of robbery.

“Yes, that’s me! See here, Senators, there’s no time to explain. I need to borrow Boe for a moment. I promise I’ll return him to New New York safe and sound. Boe was my friend. I wouldn’t hurt any part of him. Please?” he added. Maybe asking nicely was what he should have done from the beginning.

Tau’s olive-skinned face darkened by several hues. “While I know you are investigating New New York’s predicament as Matron Hame’s guest, I cannot allow you to saunter in here and steal away our city’s greatest treasure. Put the jar down, Doctor, and we shall never speak of this again. Otherwise –” As he spoke, several guards arrived and made their way toward the Doctor. “– I regret I will have to take you into custody.”

“No, please! There’s a reason I need to do this. Senator Laftner, you know the complexity of the case. Complexity calls for unusual measures. Boe saved the city once. I’m going to need him to save the city again.”

Hope filled the Doctor’s hearts when he saw Senator Laftner hesitate. The gentleman clearly had influence over the Senate. Maybe he could convince his colleagues to give permission to the Doctor for this unusual move.

Unfortunately, Laftner’s thoughtful demeanor melted away and, aghast, he looked at the Doctor as if he’d grown six arms. “Doctor… but this is theft!”

When no other Senators spoke, the guards took that as their signal to move forward. One of them was coming up from behind the Doctor, blocking his way to the TARDIS’ s door. He didn’t mind getting arrested, but he was aware that every second of delay would mean exponentially more time passing in the rift dimension. He couldn’t subject Madeleine and Javert in that miserable place for that long.

“Please, Senators, I can explain!” The Doctor darted his eyes about. Tau was stone-faced while Laftner looked sympathetic but otherwise unmoved. The other three Senators looked almost eager for his capture. He was running out of excuses…

Then Clara, leaning out of the TARDIS door, spoke up. “Senator Laftner, your son’s not dead.”

The guards paused.

The poor gentleman’s face turned deathly pale. “Wh-What did you say?”

Clara continued without missing a beat. “Your son, he was abducted by the rift just like everyone else who has disappeared. The rift doesn’t kill people, it just transports them to another realm. We’ve been there, that other realm. Mayor Madeleine has told us he’s seen your son. In fact, he’s staying in that world with Inspector Javert now. We’re going to get him and everyone else back. He’s not dead!”

His knees suddenly giving out, the Senator collapsed. One of the guards caught him by the arms just in time to prevent him from crashing to the ground. “Samuel… my son? Not dead?”

The Doctor wanted to run up to Clara and spin and twirl her around. Oh Clara, clever, brilliant Clara! She had said enough to give him the segue he needed. Taking his cue, he turned to Senator Laftner and put as much enthusiasm in his voice as possible: “Yes, not dead at all! And I promise we’ll get him back, we’ll get everyone back. But we need the Face of Boe in order to do that. We need Boe to act as a homing device to signal the rift—that’s the void that opened in the sky and swallowed people up—before I can return everyone to New New York.” He looked directly into Laftner’s eyes “Please believe me, I can do this. But I really, really need to take Boe with me if I have any chance of success at all.”

The other Senators, who moments ago were looking at each other as if trying to decide whether the Doctor was a dangerous threat or just crazy, or both, were now all looking at Laftner. The man was sitting on the floor, with tears flowing down his face. Even in such an undignified position, the grief of a father made Laftner respectable, utterly inviolable. Whatever verdict he were to pronounce, the Doctor was sure that it would be the decision the other Senators would accept.

“Do you promise, Doctor?” he asked, voice hoarse and full of tremor.

The Doctor nodded. “I do.”

“Then take it. Take the Face of Boe. I’d give anything to have my son back. Just be sure to keep your word, Doctor.”

“I promise.” Boe’s jar in hand, the Doctor entered the TARDIS. He settled the jar on the floor beneath one of the control panels and began punching in the coordinates to get them back into the rift world. The Doctor would bring everyone who was still there back—that was his promise to himself.

-

They were nearing the end of Month Three, and Javert had gathered all the information he needed by this point. He found himself cursing the Doctor’s non-return more often lately than wishing for his reappearance. Having no more mystery to ponder, his thoughts drifted frequently to his one constant presence in this dark world.

Said constant presence was currently trying to break apart a fight between a hardened criminal and a traffic offender, who was being accused of stealing the criminal’s candles. The traffic offender, a young woman of no more than twenty-five, was cowering behind Valjean, professing her innocence even as the criminal attempted to circumvent the hurdle before him and lunge at her. Javert flattened his lips and fumed through his nostrils. Were criminals in New New York so depraved as to not have any regard for even the most basic rules of propriety?

Valjean held back the criminal with one hand easily while he dug his other hand into his shirt pocket. When the hand reemerged with not one, but three candles, the criminal snatched the candles rudely from Valjean’s hand before stalking back into his corner of the main hall.

The woman thanked Valjean profusely. In the moonlight, Valjean was every bit _Père Madeleine_ as he knelt down to eye level with the woman, whispering reassurances to her and giving her two of his candles. Javert knew those candles would be safe in her hands; not one among the hundreds of prisoners here would dare to rob from those on whom Valjean had bestowed his charity.

“How’s our food supply?” Valjean asked when he stood up again, to no one in particular.

“We have enough for supper and tomorrow’s noontime meal,” a female voice that Javert recognized as a member of the cooking team answered.

“Good. Then there is no need to hunt tonight. Carpentry team, please meet me and Candace at the supply room. Everyone else, I will see you at supper time.”

Javert remained in the shadows after Valjean and the carpentry team left the main hall to plan for tools distribution, or what other matters that such a team needed to discuss. He allowed his mind to wander as his eyes trailed the movements in the hall. Several of the more daring prisoners had decided to head for a walk along the river. A few pairs’ attempts at surreptitious departure into more private areas of the complex did not evade Javert’s notice. The leader of the cooking team, the one who had answered Valjean’s earlier question, rounded up her crew to start preparing for supper. Ten or twelve younger prisoners took out a ball made from wood and tree gum and proceeded to organize a game of sports on the field outside the complex. Some fell asleep. Thus dispersed, everyone nonetheless stayed close to within two to three minutes’ running distance from the main hall, where Valjean’s flashlight was being guarded by an older hostage who had been a schoolteacher before he was taken by the rift due to his one count of traffic law violation of driving while intoxicated. With no access to alcohol in this realm, he was as trustworthy a flashlight guard as any of the nonviolent offenders who had rotated in and out of this role.

The main hall felt different without Valjean’s presence, and Javert briefly wondered if this was what it was like when the guards left the convicts alone at the Toulon galleys at night. They were always under supervision, of course, but after sunset, the convicts would have the guise of privacy. Javert scoffed at the tenuous comparison. This place, though miserable, was nothing like Toulon. Here, the guards in the form of Valjean and Candace were not merely benevolent, they were also planners, administrators, and servants. And—seeing Valjean’s flashlight in the schoolteacher’s hands—apparently martyrs as well. Javert, with his own flashlight, was ready to rush to Valjean and Candace’s rescue should the rift threaten them while they were in private conference. But he had no basis to believe that those two hadn't risked their lives in planning meetings prior to his arrival. Javert recalled seeing on Valjean’s record at the TARDIS that he would have a daughter at some point. Could this be where he would acquire one, with Candace?

But he couldn’t shake off the image of Valjean’s gaze on him, during moments when he didn’t realize Javert was aware of it, before the restraint of a saint would turn Valjean’s eyes. He had thought he’d imagine it two months ago, but as the weeks passed and the gaze intensified, Javert could no longer explain away those eyes that always seemed to be on him for a bit too long. Valjean was terrible at being discreet; any fool could see the intentions behind that gaze, and Javert suspected many fools among their unpleasant company had already realized. After all, they had taken to spending nights away from the main hall for weeks now, and despite occupying separate quarters, propriety would not be what some of the more depraved minds here would naturally assume of their interactions.

But Valjean never asked and Javert never allowed himself to pursue the possibility. The TARDIS’s record was etched like a stone inscription in his mind. Prison Guard Jean and Hunter Javert may have a future, but Convict (ex-convict, Javert’s mind supplied) Valjean and Inspector Javert would not. He had stopped asking himself whether he wanted to see Valjean arrested anymore. Javert was resigned to following the letters of the law, just as Valjean had resigned himself to the law’s judgment, and Javert was determined to do everything he could to leave his heart out of it.

Supper was tortuous tonight, following an entire afternoon of non-productivity. Despite sitting as far away from the cause of his distraction as possible, Javert couldn’t tear his eyes from Valjean: interacting with the violent criminals as friends but never debasing himself to their level, sharing food with the slow-of-hand, wiping his mouth with a swipe of his sleeve, and that same mouth, lips curved into a smile whenever those eyes would find his. A man whistled next to him when he caught one of their silent exchanges. An irritated shove of his elbow earned him cackles in return. “ _Tais-toi!_ ” Javert demanded, which only drew him more attention.

The Doctor really needed to return. Without an investigation to occupy his mind, Javert was losing his sanity. That the cause of his diminishing sanity was constantly within his presence made his supplication to whoever would listen even more fervent. And—never a man to shirk from his responsibilities—Javert knew there was one conversation he needed to have sooner rather than later.

So after supper and a fruitless attempt to clear his mind from two trips to the river to draw water, Javert found himself outside of Valjean’s room.

-

“Come in, Javert, the door’s not locked.”

“You’re so certain it’s me,” Javert said as he stepped into what he had come to think of as Valjean’s room, turning on his flashlight as soon as he closed the door. The room may have once been a manager’s office, with a desk and two chairs. The mattress placed against the far wall seemed out of place. Valjean had probably moved it here from one of the storages. Compared to the spartan but serviceable room the next door down that Javert had claimed as his own, Valjean’s quarters was a palace.

Valjean appeared to have just stood up. Javert spotted the makeshift wooden beads he held in his hand, rough nodes made from the mysterious fruit trees in this realm that grew strong despite the lack of sunlight. “I interrupted your prayers. I apologize.”

Valjean indicated Javert to take a chair. “No need, please, sit. I was just finishing up.” He moved the second chair to the same side of the desk as the first. He smiled at Javert. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Not knowing how to respond, Javert looked away. This was the first time he sought Valjean’s presence. All other times, it was Valjean who invited him to walks or to meetings to discuss the case.

“Your knocks,” Valjean said.

“ _Pardon?_ ”

“You asked why I know it’s you. I can tell by your knocks. Three clipped raps. Always the same.”

“Hmm.” The spy in Javert took note of this. He would have to be careful of how he knocked when he returned to Montreuil-sur-Mer. Though in reality, he hardly ever needed to knock. When not barging through doors, Javert usually preferred to slip in quietly.

“The case, have you made more discoveries?” Valjean asked.

Javert leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He stared at his hands, suddenly feeling the need to insert some distance between him and Valjean “I have,” he said. “I’m afraid the case involves more factors than we had previously believed. We will not be able to move forward until the Doctor returns.”

Valjean understood what Javert was really saying. “You’re not here to talk about the case.”

Javert shook his head.

Valjean waited, as he always waited, patiently and kindly.

Javert kept staring at his hands. He had no words, no problems to solve, nothing aside from an irrational decision that took him here because he had wanted to, _needed_ to, attempt to put a stop to… this. He could leave. He could stand and head out the door and Valjean would not say a word about it tomorrow. And if the Doctor and Clara came back now, they would return to New New York, to Montreuil-sur-Mer, and would pretend they had never shared meals and walks and meetings and times in a room together.

But walking away would make Javert a coward.

“The truce,” he finally began, “I never expected it to turn out this way.”

Valjean didn’t respond, though Javert distinctly sensed that he also agreed.

He continued, “It was extended out of selfishness. I always knew I would be the victor in the end.”

“Do you regret it?” Valjean asked, after waiting some more but hearing no further words from Javert.

“No!” Javert loathed the uncertainty he heard in Valjean’s voice. He was being selfish again. He knocked on Valjean’s door because _he_ needed to talk this through, because _he_ wanted to broach a subject that Valjean would rather not discuss. Had he done anything, since the day of the truce, that was not motivated by selfishness? Had he even once considered Valjean’s needs or well being?

What should he say—that he had come to respect Jean Valjean, all of him, including the convict? That he was now trapped in the impossible position of doing something that would destroy them both? That even now, he refused to consider any other option than to bring Valjean to justice, because that was what the future dictated? That deep inside, perhaps, even without the TARDIS’s prophecy, Javert may still make the same decision, after all?

“ _Mon cogne_.” This term of endearment, Valjean’s claim on him, was spoken like a benediction. Each time, without fail, it meant that Javert would be accepted as who he was, regardless of circumstances. It granted permission for Javert to speak his mind.

The words came rushing out. “Why? Was nineteen years not enough for you, that you had to go and steal again, fall back into crime? Taking 40 _sous_ from a boy? What were you thinking? I’ve read your file. Do you know what it says? _October 1815 – Pending arrest for theft, incident reported by Gervais, boy, chimney sweeper_. And on the same day: _Failed to present himself to authorities, violation of parole._ One single day, that was all it took to throw the rest of your life away! How could you be so impulsive, so short-sighted, so… _stupid!_ ”

A hand came to rest briefly on his shoulder. The weight was comforting.

“You’ve tied my hands, Valjean. It would have been fine, had I not come to know you these past three months. But now, now you’ve condemned us both.”

This wasn’t the confession he had meant to divulge. But now that it was out, Javert could do nothing but await Valjean’s judgment.

If he strained his ears, Javert could hear the river whispering in the distance, the illogical flow of the current trapping them in an illogical realm, confining the unfortunate souls here to a future of hopelessness. This was a realm in which, until weeks ago, no one had chosen to remain willingly. And yet here he was, a willing victim sitting too close in the presence of an unwilling volunteer, being granted the gift of time in this most unlikeliest of places. Despite the mental agony caused by discovering that everything no longer made sense, Javert knew he would not give up the past three months for anything.

The biggest cause of his agony waited for—no, _demanded_ , however silently—Javert to turn to him before he would speak. When Javert looked, he realized Valjean had been turning his rosary in his hand during this time. Perhaps it was a nervous gesture. Or perhaps he had identified a new object for salvation to pray for. He may as well. Never had Javert felt so lost.

“At the beginning of our adventure…” Valjean’s first words were hesitant. Javert resisted the urge to look away. Valjean seemed to find comfort in having his attention, and that was one gesture he was able to grant. “After I realized you have known who I am all along, I still thought it was possible for you to change your mind. I thought that if I could prove to you that I have changed, that I’m no longer the hate-filled man I was in Toulon, then perhaps you would stay your hand.” Valjean shook his head. “I was foolish. I wanted absolution from the law, something that you cannot give. Understand this, Javert, it is not your responsibility to define the laws of justice. You enforce them. And since that’s the right thing for you to do, I will always respect you for it.”

Javert thought back to That Night. Even when burning with fury, Valjean had still recognized what made his _cogne_ angry, then proceeded to affirm his admiration for Javert in leading a blameless life. If he’d only open his eyes, he would see that he had had Valjean’s respect all along. And if Javert had looked deeper, earlier, it wouldn’t have taken so long for him to see the other truth.

“Monsieur –” For such a selfless, unfathomable, _good_ man, addressing him as anything less honorable would be improper. “– you have more than proven yourself.”

Valjean looked almost startled, as if he couldn’t believe what he had heard. “Thank you,” he stammered, and Javert hated the awe he heard in those two words. He hated more so for understanding why the sentiment was there, for the part he played to cause Valjean to never expect acceptance from anyone who knew of his past.

“It’s the truth,” Javert said. It was he who had been lying to himself for far too long.

“I wouldn’t be who I am today if I weren’t shaped by my past mistakes.” Valjean’s voice was level, neither excusing his crimes nor wallowing in self-recrimination. “But I will ask. I will ask this of you only once: When we return to Montreuil-sur-Mer, will you allow me to flee, to go into hiding?”

“With my knowledge?” He wanted to—oh how he wanted to! But that would make him an accomplice. “I cannot.”

He didn’t know what reaction he expected from Valjean—though surely something bad?—for denying the wanted criminal his one remaining recourse to freedom, for closing all doors save the terrible path that would lead him back to Toulon. It would be right for Valjean to snarl or rage, though he detected neither being directed his way. Or perhaps—a part of him took on the role as a distant observer wondering at the panic that suddenly seized the rest of him—Valjean would quietly slip away, whether in New New York or back on Earth, and Javert would never see him again. The thought chilled his blood and dried his throat; his pulse suddenly drummed too loudly in his ears. His panic growing, he couldn’t understand since when had the thought of Valjean’s absence from his life become such an unbearable, terrifying prospect. Javert shuddered as too-clear truths broke through like a moth breaking through its chrysalis, a ray of light beaming out of the cobwebs of his cottoned mind. He had been careful to guard his heart, or so he had believed. But in reality, he was long past the point of not caring where Jean Valjean was concerned.

The jumbled thoughts and whirling emotions had only taken up but several heartbeats’ time, for, without losing composure upon hearing Javert’s verdict, Valjean offered what by now was a familiar gesture and reached for Javert’s hand. When Javert made no effort to protest, a reassuring squeeze followed. “Then we are settled. There is nothing to concern yourself about.”

Javert stared. Who was this man, capable of forgiving even to the point of embracing certain condemnation?

Valjean graced him with a small smile, the knowing curve of lips accompanied by understanding in his eyes, and Javert was convinced that Jean Valjean could read minds as well. Confirming his suspicions, Valjean answered his silent question: “You said you learned from the Doctor you will arrest me when we return. I admit I don’t understand the full impact of your future act, not yet. Perhaps it’s like how we treat death, how we push all thoughts of unpleasant things aside.

“I assume the full weight of reality will strike soon enough. But for now, do you know what this means? It means we live. We will both survive the rift. The Doctor will win. He will return us safely to Earth. It means our time here, though full of darkness, is not hopeless. The New New Yorkers will be rescued, and we will see Montreuil-sur-Mer in the year 1820 again.”

He was still staring at Valjean, he knew, but he couldn’t muster enough strength to will his face into a more dignified expression. “Why do you always see the good in even the bleakest of circumstances?”

Valjean smiled—this one was bigger and even kinder than the half-smile he had been wearing—and his eyes shone. “My faith in God, Javert. God saw the worst of me and declared me clean. How can I not do the same after having been shown such mercy?” Noticing Javert’s incredulity, he shook his head slightly as if in apology. “I did say it would sound foolish to you.”

“It doesn’t,” Javert mumbled. He couldn’t pass judgment on something that he utterly could not understand.

The hand on Javert shifted to his arm, gently pulling his torso up so he was now sitting with his back straight against the chair. In a matter of seconds, Valjean had turned completely serious. “Since we are discussing my arrest, I should tell you of a matter, a request for your assistance, if you will. There’s a hidden compartment in my desk at the mairie, inside the top right drawer, under what is in reality a false bottom. When you lift the wooden panel, you will find several missives there. They are my instructions for continuing the operations of my factory in the event that anything should befall me, and, if the city would accept it, an interim succession plan for governing Montreuil-sur-Mer until the King appoints a new Mayor.”

Javert couldn’t find the words to respond, though even if he had the words, he wasn’t sure if the lump forming at his throat wouldn’t get in the way. Valjean was speaking of his final instructions as if explaining to Javert the details of his last will and testament, which, considering what the future held for him, was close enough to the truth.

“I also have a letter to M. Laffitte containing all the necessary documents for the withdrawal of the funds I have deposited with him. The letter authorizes the person delivering the letter to serve as executioner of my estate. With your status as a police officer, he shouldn’t give you trouble in honoring my requests.”

“Monsieur, this is –”

“I’m not willing to see Montreuil-sur-Mer descend back into poverty without at least some effort on my part to keep its prosperity going for as long as possible. The money, it was meant to serve as my emergency fund should I need to go into hiding. But since that will no longer be possible, I would like to see it used to help the people of the city.” He looked earnestly at Javert, a plea in his eyes. “Will you do this for me, Javert? For the citizens of Montreuil-sur-Mer?”

Not trusting his words, Javert nodded.

Then Valjean was suddenly too close, even though he hadn’t moved. Javert made to stand, but was stopped by Valjean’s hand back on his arm, asking him to stay. The hold was gentle; Valjean would not force him to remain. But Javert nonetheless felt those fingers burning him, a grip offering the familiar warmth he had come to crave. Their eyes met. Javert saw the same heat blazing there.

“Stay, please.”

He understood the unspoken. Valjean was extending friendship, again—had been extending it to Javert all this time. Tonight, Valjean was emphatic, the same friendship offered after their forthright discussion about his recapture. But Javert also detected more. Valjean wanted friendship, but _Jean_ desired companionship. The request was solemn. Nothing would happen without Javert’s expressed permission.

As if he could refuse Jean Valjean anything. He stayed.

Later, Valjean led him to his bed, and it was warm, so much warmer than all the other nights Javert had spent alone. True to Valjean’s promise from many weeks ago, they were here to sleep, nothing more. The mattress was big enough to fit them both comfortably. But even so, Javert didn’t move away when Valjean drew them close, made no objection when a too-scratchy blanket was draped over him, mummifying them together.

Sleep claimed Valjean first, and Javert marveled at Valjean’s trust in him, declared not with words but in the steady breathing of a slumbering man. If the rift were to appear over Valjean while he slept, it would be as natural for him to expect Javert to come to his rescue as a father would rush his child to safety away from a growling tiger, and Valjean’s expectation would be correct. Javert touched a hand to his inner pocket, where his flashlight was securely hidden.

As he drifted off to sleep, Javert’s last thought was maybe he didn’t want the Doctor and Clara to return so soon after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing frantically to finish up the rest of the chapters, and I'm happy to share that I'm thisclose to wrapping up the fic! In the realm of Real Life, I'll be starting a new job. As I'll no longer be an unemployed grad school alum, this means my time to write will be severely cut short. But I promise I'll finish this story and will update as quickly as I can.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, I appreciate any comments and feedback.


	17. Captain John Hart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team TARDIS is ready to send everyone home. Can they do it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of plot in this chapter. I'll get back into Valjean's and Javert's heads next chapter.

The Doctor checked the time display on the TARDIS console as he waited for the Old Girl to hone in on the rift’s coordinates. The pit stop back to New New York had taken thirty-seven minutes. That was thirty-six minutes and fifty seconds too long. The TARDIS beeped, signaling her readiness to fly into the void. Out of the corner of his eyes, the Doctor saw the time display move forward by another minute. There was not another second to lose. Pushing forward the handle for takeoff, he sent the TARDIS into flight.

The blanking out of the time display as they landed signaled to the Doctor that they had arrived back into the rift world. Whatever perception of time that he was sensing here really wasn’t time passing at all, even though the minutes and the hours were still real and those who spent time in this dimension would continue to age. The Doctor reminded himself to get rid of the rift manipulator once he was done saving everyone. The rift was most definitely not something that anyone should toy with.

Wasting no more time, he stepped outside. Even before his eyes could fully adjust to the darkness, just by the way the air smelled around him, he could already tell that many months had passed. Clara couldn’t pick up on the same time quality in the air, but as she stepped outside, the Doctor could tell that she, too, realized they had arrived here much later than the few days they had promised to Madeleine and Javert.

He turned to Clara. “We need to make a slight change in how we go about doing this. I originally planned for us to all be together, with Javert and Madeleine. But now that we’re here –” He gestured at the Victorian mansion before them. “– and they’re still on the other side of the river, it’s either us going in alone or bringing only one of them over.”

“You sound like you prefer to bring one of them over,” Clara said.

The Doctor nodded. “And here’s where you can help. I need you to drop off one of the winged gliders on the other side while I make a quick call to Javert to update him on things. He’s not going to like hearing from me after who knows how long he’s been stranded here. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of that. For you, you’re going to have to fly both gliders over. These things stack up nicely, like this…” The Doctor demonstrated, showing how even after placing one glider on top of the other, it was still possible to fly off on one of them. “When you get there, leave one glider on the opposite shore and then come back quickly. Madeleine and Javert will have to decide which one of them will come over while the other one stays with the hostages. Don’t wait up for them.”

“Right, two gliders, fly over, drop one off, come back. Got it, Doctor. Anything else?”

“Flashlight. The rift shouldn’t come after you, but have it ready anyway.”

Clara dug out a flashlight from her pocket, showing it to the Doctor before securing it back in its hiding place. She picked up the gliders. “If you forgot my number, it’s set to speed dial number five on the TARDIS phone. All right, be back soon!”

“Fly safely!” The Doctor let his eyes follow the stunning sight of golden wings taking off into the sky until Clara became no larger than a speck. He then turned back to the TARDIS. Opening up the St. John’s Ambulance compartment for the phone—he really needed to develop a patch to reroute the phone to the TARDIS console at some point—he pressed speed dial number five and steeled himself for being yelled at by the inspector.

-

Javert was in the middle of a visit with Samuel Laftner when Clara’s communication device rang.

“Where the hell have you been?” he screamed into the device, letting every bit of his pent-up anger over the past four months, nine days and seventeen hours surface.

“I’m sorry! There was a slight miscalculation on my part, but we’re here now, Clara and I.”

“I should have known,” Javert muttered, and proceeded to ignore to the best of his ability the string of words that followed, excuses that were supposed to convey how sincerely sorry the imbecile was at not knowing how to fly his stolen TARDIS. Javert cut in before the Doctor could get to Reason Number Six for why he was sorry. “Just say what you will have Jean and I do. You’re the leader of our mission, we await your instructions.”

The Doctor paused, probably to take in enough air to make up for the past minute of endless talking.

“Well?” Javert prodded impatiently.

“So it’s _Jean_ now, Javert? See, my delay did do some good. Unintentional, yes, but anyone could see that you two needed time to sort things out –“

“Please! Your instructions.”

“Oh right, yes, the reason I’m calling. Well, as we speak, Clara is flying over to your side of the river to drop off one of the winged gliders. You and Madeleine-Jean-Valjean will have to decide who stays and who crosses over to my side. I could use one of you to back me and Clara up. And whoever decides to stay in the complex should start rounding up all the hostages. My goal is to gain access to the rift manipulator and transport everyone back to New New York today.”

“Understood,” Javert replied. “One of us will join you shortly. This communication device will remain with the person who stays.”

“Oh Javert, you’re brilliant! I hadn’t even thought of that. Yes, I’m going to need to call to let you or Madeleine know when the rift is safe for transport. So now that everything is set, I’ll see one of you soon?”

“Looking forward to it,” Javert said in a tone that meant the exact opposite. He tried to imagine the face the Doctor was making at hearing his displeasure.

“I… right. Look, I’ll keep apologizing if it’s going to help, even though it obviously won’t. So I’ll let you go. Bye!” With a _click_ , the device stopped transmitting the connection.

“Is everything alright?” Samuel Laftner said from behind him.

Javert turned to the boy half reclining on his bed. “Yes. I have received instructions on how to return all the hostages back to New New York. My assistance is required before the transport can take place.”

“Can I help, too?” Samuel was on his feet in an instant. “I’m quick, I can swim, and I can hold my own in a fight.”

“You do not have the formal training. Allowing you to help would be the equivalent of sending you on a death mission.”

Samuel barked a bitter laugh. “This place is miserable enough as it is, maybe death is better. Really though, I’ve been to the mansion on the other side before. I swam over once, like I told you the first time we met. If that’s where you’re going, I really can help.”

Javert regarded Samuel closely. He knew why the young Laftner wanted to help—he had realized weeks ago. Solitary confinement did not suit the boy and, Senator’s son or not, Samuel was still young and impulsive. Even as Javert had found himself inexplicably visiting Samuel of his own initiative over the past several weeks, he doubted it abated the boy’s boredom much. Were their places switched and he became trapped in isolation, Javert may resort to volunteering for a death mission as well.

But for the Senator’s sake, Samuel Laftner must be returned to New New York safely. “I appreciate your willingness to be of assistance. But this is not the time. Do not throw your life away.”

“Sir, I used to be a racecar driver. I know danger.”

“From what I can gather, car racing is reckless.” Samuel looked as if he were about to argue. Javert held up a hand. “Nevertheless, Monsieur Laftner, since I will be heading into the same death mission I am presently trying to persuade you from joining, I may as well tell you this. I too know danger. From my time, in Jean and my world, I was an inspector. A police officer.”

Samuel’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“You do not have questions?”

Samuel gulped, his brows knitted. “That’s why you’re here, you’re investigating. You weren’t taken by the rift, were you?”

“No, I traveled here with the Doctor.”

“The Doctor! You mean, _the_ Doctor?”

Javert nodded. “We were investigating the causes of all the disappearances –”

“So let me help then!”

“– at the Senate’s request, including your father.” Samuel stopped what words he was going to spew out at the mention of the elder Laftner. “So you see, we must return you to New New York alive.”

“But I…”

“I know.” Javert made sure to hold Samuel’s gaze before continuing. “I know you want to help. You may help by relaying my whereabouts to Jean. Tell him I have received a message from the Doctor and have left to join him on the other side of the river. No, no questions, Samuel, I know how to cross over.

“Tell Jean, and Candace if she will be with him for their daily visit in the next hour, that he must gather all the hostages into the great hall for transport.” He took out Clara’s communication device. “Please give this to Jean. When it rings, he is to press the green icon and use the device as he had once seen me use it. The Doctor or I will send him a message when we are prepared to transport the hostages back to New New York.” After Samuel had taken the phone, Javert added, “You are not to follow me. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Javert gave Samuel a final nod before exiting the room. The boy had a death wish, that much was apparent. And he was impulsive. If these traits were required for excellence in racecar driving, then Javert had no difficulty accepting that even the conservative, gentlemanly Senator Laftner was unable to persuade Samuel from pursuing a profession other than his chosen hobby. But for the Senator’s sake, he would see to it that the boy would return to New New York alive and intact.

-

Flashlight in hand, Clara led the way into the mansion. The Doctor was behind her, carrying Boe’s jar in his hands and his flashlight clamped in his mouth in a very not-useful way. While walking up the stairs, Clara could see the spot of light cast by the Doctor’s flashlight dancing before them, swinging up and down, left and right, matching the erratic bounce in the way that the Doctor tend to walk when he was excited. The spot of light disappeared once they reached the second floor, the dark void surrounding them absorbing all traces of light except for what was shined onto the door in front of them. Clara steadied her hand and gripped her flashlight harder. She hoped everything would play out as planned; she had no desire to stay in the rift any longer than she needed to.

“So let’s review,” the Doctor said as soon as he followed Clara into the room, placed the jar on one of the tables and took the flashlight out of his mouth. “I signal the TARDIS with my sonic screwdriver. The Old Girl will broadcast Jack’s signal into the 51st century, and then we wait. The person we’re waiting for is Captain John Hart, former Time Agent, partner and lover of Jack Harkness, according to what I can dig up from the TARDIS’s files on Jack and Torchwood. We talk with John Hart. If he doesn’t cooperate, as I’m sure he won’t, I’ll scan and collect his biometric signature instead. With this information, I’ll be able to activate the rift manipulator and send everybody home.”

“Aren’t we forgetting the small detail of what to do in case Captain John Hart attacks?”

“Oh, we’ll figure something out,” the Doctor said, _again_ , as if he could rely on his luck to never run out. Clara supposed that was true enough. And it really was never based on pure luck anyway. The Doctor knew how to talk his way out of almost anything, and barring that, he had the Face of Boe with him. Whenever he was in a tight situation with a prop to rely on, the Doctor had always managed to use whatever he had on hand to their advantage.

“Okay, so what do you need me to do?”

“You, Clara, need to make sure John Hart doesn’t destroy that.” He pointed to the rift manipulator. “Because if the machine blows up, nobody goes home.”

That was a tall order. “How’d you expect me to do that? Oh right, I’ll figure something out.”

“Good, you’re finally getting it!” The Doctor was too busy looking like a proud mentor to notice Clara rolling her eyes. Well, she hoped there wouldn’t be a need to protect the rift manipulator from getting destroyed. “Are you ready?”

Clara prepared herself. “As ready as I can be,” she said, watching the Doctor as he took out his sonic screwdriver from his pocket, gave the Face of Boe a good scan, and then signaled the TARDIS.

For a good twenty minutes, they sat by the round table near the entrance, staring at the clutters around the room. Nothing happened. “Maybe he’s not coming?” Clara guessed, her eyes taking in a disappointed-looking Doctor. “Or we can try again?”

“No, one signal is strong enough. No one in the entire 51st Century Time Agency would miss my message, let alone John Hart, who would know Jack’s signature more than anyone.”

“Well, we can’t do anything but wait,” Clara said. “So Doctor, when you spoke with the inspector—is he okay?”

“He’s okay enough to yell and scream. Not that I blame him, I’m guessing it’s been at least three months for them.” The Doctor looked like he was piecing something together. “But he sounded very level. No, that’s not the right word. He was angry at me but at the same time he was calm. It’s almost as if he’s become satisfied. Content. Yes, content, that’s the word! Isn’t it amazing, Clara? Javert the grumpy inspector has become content.”

Clara tried to picture a content-looking inspector and found herself not quite able to accomplish it. Did Javert even know how to smile? She was glad for him though, since this meant life in this realm must not be so absolutely horrible after all, and by extension, Madeleine should be doing okay too.

“Doctor, you once told me that the TARDIS takes you where you need to go. Why do you think we landed in Montreuil-sur-Mer and met Madeleine and Javert? They were doing fine before we arrived, weren’t they? Remember when we found nothing wrong in their city? Things were perfect.”

“But not between them,” the Doctor said. “Javert the police and Jean Valjean the criminal? You know the day’s coming when one of them will end up bringing the other one down.”

“But they’re not like that anymore,” Clara pointed out.

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?” What was the Doctor going on about? It wasn’t as if Madeleine and Javert were at each other’s throat even at the beginning of their adventure. If anything, the tension between them seemed to have grown the last time she’d seen them together, in the TARDIS, when Javert volunteered to stay and Madeleine had to force himself to go against his instinct to not leave Javert on his own… oh.

Suddenly, everything became perfectly clear to Clara. “They needed time.”

“And they were given time to sort everything out, intentionally or not.” The Doctor wore a smile of pure delight, looking not a bit like his usual mastermind self trying to fix the world. He was genuinely elated at being given a front-row seat to see two of his companions learning to accept each other. “My job is to bring them back home safely. And Clara, this much I promise to you, to them.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” a cold voice jeered from behind them.

Clara whipped her head around and found herself staring into the same face she had seen on the hologram projection. Captain John Hart. The source of that cold voice. She turned back toward the Doctor. In the split second it took her head to move, there was now a gun pointed at his head.

The voice continued, “The Doctor, I take it? What an honor. They say you can change your face. Are you always so young and pretty? I should’ve known. Jack always has excellent tastes.”

“Hello! Captain John Hart, I take it?” The Doctor greeted, as if there wasn’t a chance in the world that he would have his brains blown up any second. Although by the way his spine stiffened, Clara could tell that the Doctor had moved into high alert mode, that he was ready to hold his own against whatever John Hart would throw his way. “Nice to meet you too.”

John Hart nudged the Doctor to his feet with his gun. “You just keep sitting there, pretty girl,” he said out of the side of his mouth, not bothering to look at Clara. So how exactly, then, would he know she was pretty? Not willing to risk the Doctor’s life, Clara swallowed her indignation and said nothing. But that didn’t stop her from glaring. She was unprepared to receive a look of appreciation in return, a look that made her feel sick to the stomach.

“A twenty-first century gun, eh, Captain? I’d’ve thought you’re more the type for fifty-first century technology. Vaporizing guns, for example. Easy to use and they don’t leave any bodies behind to clean. Perfect for an intergalactic murderer who wants to conceal his tracks.”

“I’ll take your advice for future consideration,” John Hart said snidely, not meaning a word of what he said. “But I think a primitive weapon is more fitting for your theatrical personality, don’t you agree?”

“Er… how about no weapon? That’d be the perfect fit for my personality. Want to try that, Captain? Things beome quite pleasant once the weapons are out of the way.”

John Hart leaned close into the Doctor. “I think not,” he growled, pushing his gun into the Doctor’s head, sending him stumbling forward several steps. “Now, walk.”

As they were about to pass the table, the Doctor reached with his arms and picked up Boe’s jar.

“Put that down!” John Hart commanded, pushing his gun into the back of the Doctor’s head. The Doctor dug in his heels and stood his ground. His hands held onto the jar tighter.

“It’s harmless. Look, I’ll exchange this for my weapon –” He placed the jar back on the table for a brief moment to take out his sonic screwdriver from his coat pocket, placing it unevenly onto a pile of papers cluttering the surface before grabbing Boe’s jar again. “– my sonic screwdriver, I’m sure you’ve heard of it? I’m surrendering it for a useless jar. Isn’t it a good trade for you?”

As soon as the screwdriver was out of the Doctor’s hand, Clara snatched it from the table. John Hart looked on with disdain but didn’t stop her. “How did you survive all these hundreds of years, Doctor? A sonic _screwdriver_? Even Jack’s outdated sonic device is more useful than your cabinet fixer.”

“Ah, yes, the squareness gun! I remember that well. Ow!”

John Hart slapped the butt of the gun into the side of the Doctor’s head. “I’m not here to talk about your past adventures with Jack. Take your jar and keep walking. You wanted my rift manipulator? You’ll get to die right next to it.”

As they walked, Clara checked the setting of the sonic screwdriver. She remembered changing it from Scan to Calculate on the day Madeleine was taken. The setting was back on Scan, as the Doctor had just used it to scan the Face of Boe before broadcasting the readings to 51st Century via the TARDIS. She aimed the screwdriver at John Hart. As quietly as she could, she collected readings on his biometric signature.

The Doctor, for his part, was risking his life to distract John Hart. “ _Your_ rift manipulator? Ha! You can’t automatically assume that everything Jack has is yours.”

By the time the sonic screwdriver finished its readings, the Doctor and John Hart had reached the front of the room, inches away from the rift manipulator. From his profile, Clara could see John Hart giving the back of the Doctor’s head one of those smiles that showed almost all his teeth. “I take whatever I want, even Jack. You don’t even come close. You never have.” He shoved the Doctor as if he were nothing more than a heavy box to be moved. “Stand over there. Turn around and face me. Don’t try to press any buttons. The machine only listens to me.”

The Doctor did as he was told, moving toward the room’s right wall and pivoting on his heels to turn around. “Not shooting yet? Then you must have questions. But be careful. ‘Cause I can talk.”

John Hart was regarding the Doctor like a predator deciding whether he was hungry enough to go in for the kill or if he should save his prey until later. For a very uncomfortable moment, Clara didn’t know which he was going to choose. But then something shifted in the gleam of John Hart's eyes, signaling that curiosity had won over.

“Where is Jack?”

Never one to take up on social cues, the Doctor continued as if John Hart hadn’t just decided to grant him a few more minutes to live. Sucking in a big lungful of air, the Doctor proceeded to fill every second of those few more minutes, and Clara couldn't help but smile. The Doctor and his speeches when in danger. John Hart had no idea what he had just gotten himself into.

“Ah, I thought you’d ask! It depends. When are you from, Captain? I sent my message to the 51st Century, but there’s no guarantee that a Captain John Hart from another time didn’t happen to be traveling by the Time Agency and picked up my signal. If you’re from Jack’s original time, then we both know he’s still back on your planet, working for the Time Agency. If you’re from the past, then this must be a trick question since you’d have no reason to know about Jack Harkness unless you’ve read about him in both of your future files or you’re asking about the original Jack Harkness that your Jack stole his identity from –”

John Hart cocked his gun. “Where. Is. Jack!”

“Patience! I was going to say, since you are clearly the Captain John Hart who runs this criminal trafficking operation, this means you must be from the future. Which means it must be quite a long time since you’ve run into Jack, or at least not a past version of him. Because as far as I know, the Face of Boe has been who he is for hundreds of years, maybe even a thousand. You don’t look so old, Captain, so I’m guessing you’ve used your wristband quite often to jump through time. What I’m trying to say is –”

The Doctor didn’t get to go into what he was trying to say. All words died in his throat when John Hart swung his arm outward and aimed the gun at Clara. “I won’t ask again, Doctor,” he said. “You used Jack’s biometric signature to call me here. If he’s working with you, then he should at least have the decency to show his traitorous face.”

“Lower your gun, Captain.” Clara recognized the steel in the Doctor’s voice, a sign that, if provoked enough, he would do the unspeakable in order to protect the ones he loved. “I will tell you where Jack is. But not until you put your gun down.”

“No.” The Captain’s arm didn’t waver. Clara knew that, even if she tried to run, the gun would still manage to mirror her every movement. “Not until _you_ tell the truth.”

The Doctor now wore that look of his head spinning in thoughts. He was getting concerned for Clara. Not wanting to add to his worry, Clara did her best to look nonchalant. If she was the Captain’s bargaining chip, then it wouldn’t help him to kill her too quickly.

The Doctor, in turn, also went for the nonchalant strategy. “I see what you’re trying to do here, Captain, but I’m afraid this isn’t going to work. I should point out, Clara may look helpless, but you’ll be sorry if you ever cross her. She’s lived more lives than I have. Go ahead, shoot. She’ll come back again. But you’ll be sorry if you do. Killing her is only going to get me angry, and you don’t want me angry.”

John Hart seemed to consider whether the Doctor was bluffing. He flicked his eyes toward Clara. “Clara. Is this her name? Pretty name, goes well with her pretty face. Fine.” The gun was pointed back at the Doctor. “It’d be a pity to blow her brains out. I find more enjoyment killing you anyway. Now, talk.”

Clara could tell the Doctor’s relief by the way his shoulders were no longer stone-tense. But his face betrayed nothing. His eyes were calm as he found and held John Hart’s gaze. If she had to describe the Doctor in one word at this moment, Clara would choose the word ‘solemn.’ In a matter of seconds, all traces of the cheery trickster had disappeared.

The Doctor’s voice was equally as serious. “Captain John Hart, you’re not going to like what I’m going to say, but I’m telling you the truth.” He held up Boe’s jar. “Jack Harkness is dead. You’re looking at a piece of him, preserved in this jar. This is how I managed to get Jack’s signal to you.”

There was no sound, no movement, perhaps not even any intake of air, for what felt like a moment of time frozen and spanned across minutes. John Hart looked at first uncomprehending, but as the meaning behind the Doctor’s words sank in, his eyes grew wild and he took on the appearance of a dangerous assassin trying hard, but failing, to mask his despair.

“What do you mean, dead? He can’t be dead,” he mumbled as if to himself. The hysteria was so genuine in John Hart’s voice, his emotions so raw, that Clara couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pity for him. Even if he had never spoken an honest word, it was obvious that Jack Harkness had meant a lot to him. The gun was shaking in his hand, from anger or from shock, Clara didn’t know. Maybe both.

Then cold fury gripped the man. “You’re not the Doctor,” he spat, his eyes narrowing. “You must be an imposter if you don’t even know what Jack Harkness is capable of.”

The Doctor’s voice remained calm, almost compassionate. “I know perfectly well that Jack had been immortal and couldn’t die. I was there when it happened, when my TARDIS’s pure vortex energy fed into him so he would keep coming back to life, time after time again and couldn’t stay dead. But the energy did fade over time, and he used the last of it to save the people of New New York. He became the Guardian over that city as the Face of Boe. And he’s here now, in this jar, a relic that will forever remind you and me that he died his last death sacrificing himself.”

John Hart stared at the Doctor, then at the jar. Even from a distance, Clara could see the Captain’s bloodshot eyes. He kept muttering to himself. Clara could make out words like _cannot be_ and _not dead_ repeated over and over.

“I’m sorry, Captain. We all die. And for Jack, I’m sure to be able to die in the end was a blessing.”

Tension built in the room. John Hart was a rubber band being stretched tighter and tauter. The Doctor waited, not daring to move. Clara could hear the pounding of her own heart as she looked on in this inevitable train wreck.

It didn’t take long for John Hart to snap. “Liar!” he screamed, a terrible howl of a soul thrown back into the abyss, of a man losing the one good thing in his life.

By the time Clara realized what was happening, it was too late. John Hart looked as if he’d made a decision. He steadied his gun with both hands and, with the speed of someone having done it thousands of times before, aimed it squarely at the Doctor’s forehead.

“Doctor!” she screamed, just as the blast of the shot went off.

Clara rushed toward the smoke that was filling the front of the room, not caring one bit that she was running into a gun-toting psychopath. Did the Doctor have any more regenerations left? Was John Hart versed enough in Time Lord physiology to know that they could be killed permanently if their regeneration process was halted, if he’d simply fire into the Doctor again?

The smoke thinned around a standing figure. Clara strained her eyes. The figure was still holding Boe’s jar.

“Doctor! You’re okay!”

The Doctor gave her a small smile, but his eyes were fixed on a fallen John Hart at his feet. Clara followed his gaze. The Captain’s face was twisted in agony—partly from pain but more so from anger and grief. Clara trailed her eyes down his body. Blood was pooling around him. Sticking out of his right shoulder and left thigh were two arrows.

The arrows must have flown in from the entrance. Clara turned. There, standing by the door with a ready bow in his hands, was Inspector Javert.

-

Javert approached the front of the room. The man the Doctor referred to as Captain John Hart was still lying on the floor, the pool of blood growing as he struggled to sit. He spotted the man’s gun. Picking it up, he gave it to the Doctor.

Understanding his unspoken question, the Doctor shook his head. “We’ve already subdued him. He doesn’t deserve to die.”

Javert pressed his lips into a tight line. He didn’t agree, but knew better than to try changing the Doctor’s mind.

“We need to get him to a hospital,” the Doctor said.

“You’re not serious –”

“Javert, I should thank you. Thank you for saving my life. And thank you, for sparing his.” The Doctor turned to John Hart, addressing him with far more kindness in his tone than Javert deemed appropriate, “Captain, the Jack Harkness I know, even at his worse, was only a con man. Yes, he’s killed and more often than not failed to realize the consequences of his actions, but I’ve never known Jack to be a calculated murderer.”

“Don’t expect me to change, Doctor.” John Hart’s voice was weak, but the vitriol and defiance in his voice were unmistakable.

The Doctor smiled. “I’m not asking you to. You’ll only listen if Jack asks this of you.” He placed Boe’s jar on the floor and knelt down. “When was the last time you’ve seen Jack?”

John Hart was clearly confused at being asked such a non sequitor question. He searched his memories nonetheless. “Torchwood Three, when it was destroyed. I left Jack so he could rebuild what remained of his team.”

The Doctor took John Hart’s left hand and began punching in numbers on his wristband. “I’m sending you along with a message from me to the greatest hospital in the universe, to the Sisters of the Infinite Schism. It’s only about a few decades ahead of your time, so you’ll fit right in. I’ll send a Jack from the past to go visit you there somehow. I don’t do hospital duties. He’s going to have to do it for me.”

John Hart could barely gasp out the syllables. “Wh-Why are you doing this?”

The Doctor thought for several seconds before answering. If Javert thought the Doctor was being kind, he was wrong. He had never heard such a cold, hard edge to the Doctor’s voice. He suddenly understood the absolute darkness that the Doctor, when without restraint, was capable of. “Because killing you is not the answer. And because if you continue any of your illicit acts in the future, I’m sure our paths will cross again. Don’t forget, I survived the Time War when both my people and the Daleks have died. Look me up. I’m the Time Lord who killed them all. Now, go.” With one last look at the fallen Captain, the Doctor activated John Hart’s vortex manipulator and sent him into early 52nd century.

“You let him go!” Javert protested, long after the smoke had cleared and all traces of John Hart having been here, save for the blood, had disappeared.

The Doctor was back to being his cheerful self. “Ah, my dear inspector, it may look like it, but I could hardly send a psychopath back to his time without setting up safeguards of my own, could I? Or, I _will_ set up safeguards. Remind me, Clara, when this is all over, to contact Jack and River.”

“River?” Clara asked, confusion written across her face.

“Yes, River Song, smarter, more capable, and an all-around better psychopath than John Hart. She lives in the 52nd century at one point in her life. I’ll send her a message to keep an eye out for a cosmic criminal. She’ll know exactly how to keep him in check. Who knows, maybe she’ll take over the entire Time Agency! Have I ever told you how amazing River is?”

“Doctor, the hostages,” Javert reminded, before the Doctor could launch into a litany of praise for someone whom Javert recalled the Doctor had once told him was his wife.

“Oh, yes, the hostages! I totally forgot. Clara, I trust that you’ve used my sonic screwdriver to collect John Hart’s biometric readings? Yes? Good. Hand me the screwdriver. Now –” He transmitted the readings into the rift manipulator. The machine responded by coming to life with flashing lights and a humming noise from its central processor. “The only thing left before we start the transfer is to figure out how to make a call from this machine. Clara, you do know your own mobile number, do you? I can’t do speed dial number five here.”

As the Doctor tested keys and experimented with buttons, Javert remembered something. “Doctor, this realm, you said it was created by the rift to hold its hostages?”

“Yes, what about it?”

“This Captain John Hart, if he’s a man who traverses time and space like you, would his trafficking operations not span across the universe as well? I have evidence that the rift creates realities for its occupants according to their places of origin, or in your and Clara’s case, according to places you have visited. You were able to see the tower on the far end of the prison complex, I gather?” At the Doctor and Clara’s nods, he continued, “Jean and I can see it as well. But to the other hostages, those who have not been to Montreuil-sur-Mer, there is no tower.”

The Doctor’s eyes grew round. “Javert, are you saying there are others?”

“I am… surmising that there may be other realities in this world. If John Hart could pay New New York five billion dollars in return for the city’s complicity, then his operations must generate a much larger profit. And for that to be possible, he must conduct concurrent abductions and hostage deliveries on a large scale.”

“So those other hostages…”

“If only we can see the tower, then perhaps there are other parts in this dimension that are only visible to hostages taken from other planets.”

When the Doctor plopped his hands on Javert’s shoulders this time, he found that he no longer felt as irritated at the Time Lord. “You’re brilliant, Javert! Yes, overlapping realities, each one created and sustained by the rift! Clara, can you find me the folder you had last time, the one with all the contracts with different planets? I’ll look up all the places John Hart has signed a contract with and I’ll find those people with the rift manipulator. Clara, Inspector, I promise you both: I’m going send everyone home.”

For over an hour, the Doctor worked on the rift manipulator to find and send hostages from twenty-seven planets home. He kept apologizing to the machine, as if each group of hostages could hear him, for subjecting everyone to the pull of what he called a _superrift_. Having spent months here, Javert for one would not be offended at being taken up by the rift if it meant exiting, as if traveling through a tunnel, on the other end to life and light again.

The Doctor visibly bounced when he sent the last group of other-planet hostages home. “There. I sent messages along with every rift reversal. Those poor people, they’re going to find themselves returned to their home world with more questions than answers. I only managed to fit in the ‘how’ in my messages, not the ‘why.’”

The Doctor turned to Javert and gave him an ear-to-ear grin. “Inspector, it’s now New New York’s turn. Ready to give Madeleine a call?”

-

The rescue was uneventful, seemingly too easy a solution after months and, for some, years of imprisonment in the rift world. By the time Javert’s call came, Jean Valjean had already gathered the New New York hostages and informed them to have everything they wanted to take with them ready. Candace volunteered to fetch Sam Laftner. She returned with both the Senator’s son and Javert’s police uniform, which she had promised to keep in good condition and return to him one day.

It was also Candace who volunteered to be the first one to enter the rift. The other hostages were not yet convinced—rightfully so—that the rift was the means to their rescue rather than a menacing void promising future danger. But after Candace and later Sam and several other daring hostages passed through the rift, the remaining hostages eventually followed. Valjean waited until everyone was transported before he approached the rift.

He looked around the dim great hall for the last time. He had spent close to one and a half year here. He had entered in despair, survived by clinging onto his faith, and then found life again when Javert had joined him. Even as the rift loomed over him promising freedom and light, he knew the promise was only for the New New Yorkers. To leave this realm was to leave the only true time of freedom he had known in his life since entering Toulon. Not free from a physical prison, perhaps, but free from being chased and hunted down, and most certainly, free to build community, pursue friendships, and discover possibilities with someone who, in this realm, was neither punisher nor the law, but simply Javert. What was it precisely that had developed between them? Valjean didn’t know. He chose not to dwell on it. This time of imprisonment (freedom, reprieve, flourishing) was over, and he must return to New New York.

Walking up to the rift, he allowed the upward force to pull him back into a life he wished he could leave behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive any typos. I am using my iPad this time, and autocorrect is the bane of my existence :p
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, comments and feedback are much appreciated.


	18. Justice and Mercy: Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tying up loose ends: New New York still needs the services of Mayor Madeleine and Inspector Javert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *points to competent!Madeleine and competent!Javert tags*
> 
> This is why I love them so much. They're both so capable in their own ways. New New York is lucky to have them helping the city.

“Samuel, a word please.”

Jean Valjean nodded his thanks to Javert for taking Sam aside so that Senator Laftner could be pulled away from his reunion with his son. The Senator was needed to tend to the more urgent duty of deciding the fate of the returning New New York criminals. Valjean attempted to catch Javert’s eyes, but the inspector did not seem to notice him. He briefly wondered if the rescue had signified an end to the closeness they had developed inside the rift, but pushed away the thought to focus his mind on his present responsibilities.

He walked with the Senator into the Senate Chamber, where two of his other colleagues were waiting for them—Tau and a lady with a shrill voice called Myrna MacVonn, who looked to be in her fifties and had yellow eyes like two citrine gems that hinted at her having cat ancestors several generations ago. Laftner and Valjean were informed that the two other Senators not present had excused themselves to tend to the New New Yorkers who had returned from the rift, and that they lent their support in whatever policy decisions their colleagues would agree on from this meeting. With a majority of Senators present, Valjean supposed that even if those two Senators were to later oppose, they would not be able to override what decisions they were here to develop and enact.

Tau commenced the Senate session, “Gentlemen and Lady, we now find ourselves in the precarious situation of having among our midst hundreds of criminals who are now also considered victims. What shall we do to provide for them without compromising the punishment they are pronounced by law to serve?”

“Those serving life sentences should be returned to prison,” Senator MacVonn said. “And since the Doctor’s inspector has a full record of everybody’s length of time spent in the rift, we can use that information to reduce the sentences for those with a defined release date.”

“My dear lady, you act as if this matter is so easily settled,” Laftner countered. “The rift also did mental and psychological harm to those it abducted. Should we not also calculate the value of those less quantifiable damages?”

“Where do we start and end with that?” MacVonn argued. “You’ve just said it, it’s less quantifiable. How would you arbitrate between two people’s claims of extreme trauma? Even with our medical advances, we still don’t have the ability to measure subjective opinions.”

Tau cut in: “Laftner, MacVonn, we’re discussing this as if it is already a foregone conclusion that we will reduce the sentences of offenders taken by the rift. Is this a wise move? Would those not taken by the rift perceive this as injustice, when only days and months ago they were alongside their prisonmates, and now they must accept that years have passed in the rift and those abducted would have their sentences reduced?”

“Not reduced, Tau,” Laftner pointed out. “They have merely served their sentences elsewhere.”

“But can you prove that?”

“The non-criminals can testify. We have Candace, my son, and even the dear Mayor here. Ah, yes, Madeleine, how rude of us to invite you to our meeting but ignore you. What say you of our proposal?”

Valjean took the time to collect his thoughts before answering. Though having no formal authority in New New York, he was accorded power to decide the fate of the prisoners. He also found himself in the unique position of being the prisoners’ advocate, should he choose to take up this role. Furthermore, to be effective, he must not mire himself in the dissection of details over sentence terms or maintaining prisoners’ harmony. He must address the larger concern of rebuilding New New York.

Putting on the tone and readying words from a part of him he hadn’t needed to draw on for over a year, Madeleine the Mayor spoke, “Senators, I have no knowledge of New New York’s laws, and I do not pretend to understand what it takes to govern such an extensive city. However, during my time overseeing the hostages in the rift, I have come to know many capable, responsible team leaders who made survival in the rift world possible. And among those team leaders, several are criminals serving heavy sentences. Two, in particular, are condemned to life imprisonment.”

Tau raised an eyebrow. “What are you proposing, Mayor Madeleine, that we release criminals from the obligation of law?”

Valjean shook his head. “I have no right to make such a request. And were I to make a similar proposition in my city, I am certain that Inspector Javert would demand my resignation forthwith.” Both the Javert from a year and a half ago and the Javert from now, he added in his mind. “However, it is my belief that idleness and isolation from society do much harm in hardening the hearts and minds of criminals. This is what I am proposing:

“New New York is struggling financially. The city is trapped in the unsavory position of lacking the funds to expand, and yet without expansion, growth and increased revenue will not result. The city’s prisoners are struggling emotionally, particularly the hundred or so who were taken into the rift. These prisoners’ trauma will only grow as they are returned to isolation. Believe me, Senators, I was in the rift, and my nightmares now comprise of being left alone and forgotten in the dark.

“But the incident of the rift has provided New New York with two unexpected gifts: firstly, the prisoners and unemployed former convicts that the city already has; there are many people among this category who possess the skills to contribute to the continued rebuilding of the city. I should add that, for some of the prisoners in particular, they would make willing workers, if what I observed from the rift is correct. Secondly, there is the matter of the five billion New Dollars paid to the city from the trafficking activities.”

“You mean to say that we keep the illicit funds?” MacVonn exclaimed, clearly scandalized by the suggestion.

“Should we return the funds to Captain John Hart?” Valjean asked wryly. MacVonn flushed and didn’t press the issue. “I suggest the Senate to view the five billion as the payment collectively earned by the plight of the abducted New New Yorkers. It is only proper to use the funds to honor the victims. It will give New New York a projected three billion New Dollars of surplus in its operating budget during the current fiscal year. Since this will be a one-time injection of funds, I believe all three billion New Dollars, less any projected personnel expenses, should be transferred into the city’s capital budget and be used toward infrastructure and capacity building. This will provide New New York with the necessary foundation to sustain future growth.” He looked at each of his colleagues. “Senators, you have the funds and the laborers. New New York can be rebuilt to its former glory. The city may turn a surplus yet, and this without the help from questionable private contributions.”

The Senators, each looking at one another, appeared as if they had been presented with a four-course feast when heretofore they had been fighting over a morsel of bread.

“We’re not talking about calculating sentence reductions anymore, are we?” Laftner asked, dumbfounded, as if coming back to reality from a vision.

“No, we’re not,” Tau said. He turned to Valjean. “Mayor Madeleine, you possess a vision for this city far beyond what we New New Yorkers could conjure for ourselves. Here we are, nitpicking on small matters when you saw beyond our petty hair splitting and pointed out the most pressing problem for our city. You’re right, Mayor, that the direst issue at hand is to revive New New York’s fiscal health and cease to rely on illicit funding streams. But may I ask, are you so certain that our criminals can turn into reformed workers?”

Jean Valjean thought to list the names and achievements of several criminals who had managed their respective teams of workers in the rift world. He also thought to detail the extent of logistics required to manage three hundred hostages’ food, clothing, and shelter—tasks that he most certainly did not accomplish on his own. Yet in beholding the doubt lingering on the Senators’ faces, Valjean realized he was in the company of three _élites_ who had never seen beyond their upper-echelon society, despite their genuine desire to help the city and meet the needs of the poor and under-served. If Valjean were to help them to understand the reformation of sinners—those belonging to the underclass, the bottom of society, the slums—he must do so in a way that these rulers could relate.

“Not all, no,” he began slowly. “New New York will still need to hire paid laborers for construction and infrastructure development. But you must not assume that all criminals are incapable of reform simply by pointing to a fraction of the overall prisoner population who will not repent.”

As expected, MacVonn protested, “But Mayor Madeleine, how can you be so sure?”

“Senators, understand this, Inspector Javert and I spent time in the rift world because we both needed to be there to rescue your citizens. However –” He breathed, deeply, to steady himself. “Only Inspector Javert had volunteered to enter and subsequently remain in the rift. I did not.”

It was Tau who first understood what Valjean was attempting to relate. “Mayor Madeleine, the rift… it took you.”

Valjean nodded. “In what seemed like a lifetime ago, I was—am—a convicted criminal. It is by God’s grace that I was given the faith to reform. And yet, precisely because I know change is possible, I implore you to consider what I am proposing for New New York. There are capable men and women dwelling in your prisons. They are like me. I too was destined for life imprisonment, were I not given the opportunity to start anew and rise to serve as Mayor.”

“Are… _were_ you a violent offender?” MacVonn asked. Valjean suppressed a sigh. It would be a long road for New New York’s rulers to truly understand the role society played in creating and hardening its criminals.

“Does it matter?” Laftner cut in. “We’ve known the Mayor to be honest and intelligent, a great ruler over his city in his time. All this is recorded history for us, so there is no room for dispute. Why should the revelation of his past supplant what we already know of him? And I believe Madeleine here would have us do the same for our citizens, to give them opportunities to redeem themselves in a way that would bring about the prosperity of the city.” He turned to Valjean, a hopeful smile on his face. “I, for one, am willing to give it a try. You’ve shown me proof enough that this can really work.”

Valjean turned to Tau. The normally stoic man gave the slightest of nods, a vote of confidence based as much on his love for the city he had adopted as his immigrant home as Valjean’s testimony. MacVonn, however, was not yet convinced.

“In your time, is Inspector Javert aware of your crimes?” she asked.

Valjean met her eyes, a smile spreading on his face of its own accord. “Yes, Madame, yes. Inspector Javert knows of every misdeed in my past.” It surprised him, the joy he was feeling in being able to speak these words. It was far beyond the relief he had supposed such a confession would bring.

MacVonn considered him closely, searching for any sign of duplicity. Valjean welcomed her scrutiny. For the first time among the company of colleagues, he had nothing to hide. At length, MacVonn seemed to have found what confirmation she sought and nodded her vote of support to her colleagues.

“Excellent, we are decided!” Senator Laftner said, standing from his chair. “Let’s head down to the guest chamber for lunch. We can meet again to work out the details of this new city-building effort.”

As Valjean and the Senators prepared to leave the Senate Chamber, frantic poundings on the door gave way to a pale-faced police guard with an almost panicked look in his eyes. “Senators, Mr. Mayor, my deepest apologies for disturbing you, but I come bearing urgent news.”

-

Javert and Samuel Laftner entered the Senate’s guest chamber and found themselves in a room full of people and food. The Doctor and Clara were piling chicken and fish onto their plates, as if playing a game of who could construct a higher mound of edibles without sending a food-tower splattering onto the floor. Novice Hame was dipping her cookies into milk again. Chief Hargrave allowed his subordinates to partake freely of the food as he rotated his men in and out of duty to guard the chamber. Even Candace was here, making small talk with Hargrave in spite of their past animosity.

Samuel Laftner’s stomach chose this precise moment to give a rumbling growl. “Go eat,” he told the boy. After months of only fish and panther meat as his main source of sustenance, Javert was tempted to indulge as well, but he had further duty to attend to.

He settled for a small plate of bread and cheese as he observed the guests in the room. He hadn’t expected to see so many people here. But he knew the crowd would only grow when the Senators and Valjean finished their meeting; other rift survivors would likely join in as well.

So with mild regret, Javert approached Samuel as soon as he had finished eating. Gripping his arm, he pulled the boy toward Hargrave and, ignoring the growing number of eyes looking at them, presented the ashen-faced boy to the police chief and said plainly, “Here is your traitor. He’s the one who sold New New York’s criminal list to the enemy.”

Chaos broke out around Javert as soon as made his pronouncement. Multiple voices—he recognized the Doctor’s among them—questioned whether he had any basis for his accusation. The police guards shuffled about, at once closing in on Samuel Laftner but also preparing to subdue Javert should Hargrave give the order. Several newly arrived rift survivors were either staring, gasping, or ready to lunge at Samuel for causing them their years of misery (Javert silently praised the competency of Hargrave’s team when he noticed several guards by the survivors’ side at once). Beside him, Samuel had gone limp and Candace was supporting him by one arm while Javert tightened his grip on the boy’s other arm. Among the commotion, Chief Hargrave was the only one who made no move, looking at Javert, waiting for his explanation.

It was Hargrave that Javert needed to convince, so without waiting for the noise around him to subside, Javert presented his findings. “I have reasons to believe that Samuel Laftner turned over New New York’s criminal records to Captain John Hart. My reasons are as follows: First, the traitor had access to New New York’s full police records, from the newly established police force’s first arrest six years ago to all subsequent arrests, in addition to earlier arrests made prior to that time, when the city was under Greenfield during a time of martial law. While I am unfamiliar with New New York’s police force, my knowledge of the structure of Paris’ Prefecture allowed me to hypothesize that no officer below the rank of Chief or Deputy Chief would have access to any city’s complete police records.” He waited, giving Hargrave the opportunity to correct him if he had miscalculated. The Police Chief merely nodded in confirmation.

“On the other hand, though not part of the police, Samuel has access to the police station at all times as the Deputy Chief’s godson. He could have easily used his godfather’s computer to obtain the city’s full criminal records. As a constant presence at the police station since childhood, no one would question why he was researching information on a police computer.

“Second, when I interviewed all the abduction victims, none was taken earlier than eight months ago in New New York’s time. Coincidentally, eight months ago was when the Deputy Chief was relieved of duty under Chief Greenfield. This led me to believe that whoever betrayed the New New Yorkers acted with the intention of revenge against the Deputy Chief’s dismissal by beginning to supply the enemy with criminal records soon after the incident. The enemy began taking New New York citizens upon receiving the list, but it took two months before enough abductions had occurred for the city to become alarmed. This, again, was the doing of Samuel Laftner. As the Deputy Chief’s godson and as someone who is by all accounts highly impulsive, it is not difficult to deduce his motive.

“Third, I have wrongly assumed that Samuel was taken by the rift due to traffic violations. I realized my mistake when I later learned from Candace Thorpe during one of our conversations that New New York’s traffic officers have learned to identify the vehicles driven by members of the police, Senate, and their kin. These vehicles are exempt from traffic law enforcement. I can personally attest to this by having been inside a police vehicle that you, Chief Hargrave, had provided us. Despite our dangerous driving, we were not stopped by the police. This led me to believe that Samuel was never arrested for traffic violation. In fact, he had not expected to be abducted. But I have seen the rift try to take the Doctor –” He turned to the Time Lord, keeping his tone level and without judgment. “– who, though a good man and without official arrest reords, had committed acts deemed reprehensible by the universe at some point in his life. Similarly, the cosmos must have deemed Samuel’s act of betrayal an offense serious enough for judgment. Thus he was taken into the rift on the basis of his crime. Of all my evidences, this is most easily verifiable and, should I be correct, most difficult to refute based on the rift’s nature of only targeting confirmed offenders. One only needs to look into whether Samuel Laftner had ever been issued a speeding violation.”

Hargrave turned to several of his men. One of them stepped forward. “It’s true, Chief, we all recognize the Senator’s son’s car. No one has ever stopped him.”

Nodding in acknowledgement, Hargrave turned back to Javert, who by now was reveling in the familiar rush of closing in on a chase, with the tingling sense of thrill coursing through his body. By God, he had missed police work.

Pausing to take in his surroundings, Javert noticed that the guest chamber was now completely silent and all attention directed toward him.

He pressed on, “Fourth, once inside the rift-created world, Samuel was never in danger of being re-taken by the rift. He was kept alone, apart from other prisoners.” He turned to Candace. “I suppose he had convinced you to keep him in isolation by arguing that while the rift posed a risk, his exposure to other criminals would mean certain death for him instead?” Candace nodded. He continued, “However, as the person who signed the contract with John Hart, Samuel would certainly enjoy some measure of immunity in order to ensure continued profit for the enemy. Whether he knew this or not, being kept alone never meant danger for Samuel. The fact that he has survived four years in a realm known to have a rift that takes those in isolation should be proof enough of his ties with the enemy.

“Fifth, Samuel had once swum over the river in the rift world. Hargrave, I will describe the layout of the rift terrain to you in more detail at a later time. For now, it is sufficient to know that the hostages were kept in a building surrounded by waters at least half a mile wide, and the enemy’s operating center was located on the other side of the river. Having realized what had happened to him and what his actions had caused for other New New Yorkers, Samuel had attempted to confront John Hart by crossing the river. I can attest to this as I have been to the operating center, where files and papers strewn across the floor all possessed the signs of having once been drenched in water. Samuel was in a haste to locate John Hart and did not take the time to dry himself. However, since the enemy was not operating from the rift, his attempt was unsuccessful and Samuel did not try to cross the river again.

“Sixth—and I will end with this—Samuel has betrayed himself many times through his strong reactions to my words. As a member of the police force, I am skilled in detecting reactions based on surprise, deception, guilt, anger, and other commonly held emotions. While I cannot offer incontrovertible proof based on what I have observed, I will submit that when I mentioned to Samuel I had intended to determine who, how, and when the abductions began, he appeared surprised and terrified. When I later revealed to Samuel that I am an inspector, he once again displayed fear. In both instances, his reactions alone would not have constituted sufficient evidence. However, when coupled with his unique experience of having grown up knowing many police officers, his fear became suspect. Combining this with my other, more objective deductions, I can arrive at no other conclusion save that Samuel Laftner is indeed New New York’s betrayer.”

Having finished his report, Javert maintained the upright posture of an inspector and held Hargrave’s gaze. The chief had listened attentatively, processing the information presented to him with a stony face. Keen eyes behind the spectacles showed Javert that Hargrave was weighing the validity of each of his claims as he spoke, belying the formidable mind of an experienced law enforcer. Javert was not anxious. An honest and worthy police officer such as Hargrave could—and would—but come to one determination.

Turning to Samuel Laftner, Chief Hargrave addressed the boy in a mild but firm tone that broached no disagreement, “If you will cooperate, you may ride in my car to return to the police station. Otherwise, I’ll have to handcuff you.”

Before Samuel could answer, the Doctor spoke up, “The Senator’s not here. Why not take Sam to first go see his father?”

“No,” Javert barked.

“Then how about let him wait? I’m sure the Senators’ meeting with Madeleine will be done soon.”

Leave it to the criminal to plead for the case of another criminal. Javert turned to the Doctor. “No, Doctor. Samuel has committed a heinous crime. How many New New Yorkers now languish in prison or are awaiting execution in another planet, another galaxy? Surely you of all people know the gravity of his actions.”

“I know, and that’s why I’m asking. He needs his father, now more than ever.” He turned to Hargrave. “Chief? What do you say?”

Hargrave looked from Samuel to Javert, then to the Doctor. “Samuel will be treated with utmost respect, as we do with all our citizens. He is ensured his due process rights and will be given the opportunity to present his defenses. But I’m afraid keeping him here will only do him harm, for once a larger crowd gathers and words begin to spread, it will be very difficult to escort him to the safety of the police station.”

The Doctor seemed convinced by Hargrave’s explanation. “Very well, you know your city best. Just –” He turned to Javert. “– have some mercy, Javert? I’m sure you’ve seen some good in Sam over the past few months.”

He had, but that was irrelevant to proving a criminal’s guilt. The Doctor turned away in a huff when he realized Javert wasn’t going to make promises he had no intention to keep.

Hargrave bowed his head. “Thank you, inspector. Your assistance has been invaluable for this entire case.”

Javert nodded in acknowledgement. “Should you need me to provide further testimony, I am at your service.”

He cast a final glance at Samuel Laftner before Hargrave took him away. The image of a reckless boy with a death wish flashed before his eyes. He knew, as he had known for months, the depth of Samuel’s remorse and his desire to rectify the wrong he had committed, even if it meant his death. But in Javert’s world, the law left no allowance for one’s state of repentance. Perhaps, he found himself pondering, the justice system was different, kinder here in New New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus end the last threads of New New York's mystery! I hope I was successful in laying out the clues throughout the previous chapters (did it work? I'd love to hear your thoughts). I tried not to be too obvious, but I'm sure you sharp-minded readers have picked up quite a few signs along the way.
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>  
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> Thank you for reading! As always, comments and feedback are much appreciated.


	19. Justice and Mercy: Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team's last hours in New New York; the final day of Valjean and Javert's truce.

Before returning to the TARDIS, Javert found his feet taking him on a detour. This time, when he entered New New York’s police station, he did not approach any of the officers. Instead, he went through the double doors that separated the administrative office from the holding cells. He continued walking until he found a man kept apart fom all the others inside the very last of a row of cells, his back hunched over, his legs drawn up, and his head buried into the crook of his arms that were wrapped around his knees.

Weighed against all the cases he had solved to date, this one yielded the least satisfaction. He wondered if this was the beginning of a trend, knowing full well the next case he was about to bring to a close.

Sensing eyes on him, the man—boy, really—raised his head and shifted around to face his visitor. “How long have you known?” Samuel asked.

“Since after my first visit to your room in the rift world.”

“So you did everything to make sure I come back here alive, just to have me arrested? It isn’t as if I wasn’t already sorry for what I did.” The boy’s words were bitter. “You pretended to be nice all this time. It’s all fake!”

Javert found Samuel’s accusation neither fully true nor fully false. Engaging with the boy’s emotions would result in a futile discussion at best and lead to irreparable emotional damage at the worst. So he opted to relay facts. “The Doctor is working on the rift to bring back those who have been transported to another realm. Unless some of the hostages have been purchased as substitutes for executions that had already taken place, he expects to return those still missing back to New New York.”

“H-How many died, do you know?”

“Not yet. It may be none, or it may be all those who have been purchased.”

The boy howled then, and buried his head back into his knees. Javert waited until the sobs and trembles subsided.

“You do not deserve pity and I will not offer any,” he said, snapping Samuel out of his selfish wallowing. “You are a traitor. If New New York allows for the death of its criminals, I would have recommended Hargrave to take this course of action.”

Samuel’s face became deathly pale. “Do you hate me this much, sir?”

“This has nothing to do with my personal regard for you.”

“But you want me dead!”

“Your crime is deserving of death,” Javert clarified. “It’s an entirely different matter altogether that I consider you a rash, strong-willed, short-sighted, petulant, and obtuse boy who is nevertheless resilient, intelligent, and not beyond reform.”

The boy looked confused at having had both his nature denounced yet his qualities affirmed in the same breath. But at least he was listening.

“You have demonstrated remorse, that is an irrefutable fact. You’re young. New New York, by all accounts, imposes lenient sentences on its criminals. And though I don’t condone it, your status as the Senator’s son will likely reduce your punishment further. Should you choose to make something of your life yet, it’s not too late.

“You’ve mentioned to me once that you never completed your education once you have taken up professional racing. Use your time in prison to do so. I believe there are educational programs available for prisoners here. Take time to evaluate yourself, to decipher what, beyond car racing, you would like to do. You have the chance to learn, seize it. Jean took the opportunity. He became mayor.”

“Jean? Mayor?”

Javert smirked. “Yes, how else can you explain that he managed to convince hundreds of criminals to willingly partake in communal living? In Montreuil-sur-Mer, where we came from, Jean was my superior, a respectable gentleman. You have many more opportunities in New New York than what he will— _had—_ in my time. You don’t have to waste your life away.”

Samuel’s eyes were lowered, not with tears this time but heavy in thought. If he asked Javert why he was offering advice at this very moment, Javert would not have been able to answer. All he knew was that a tinge of envy had invaded his heart as he pondered the possibilities that still lay ahead of Samuel Laftner, while another condemned criminal that he knew had to claw his way into respectability, and that by no other way available to him aside from further breaking the law.

He had clearly given Samuel more information than he was capable of digesting all at once. Thus Javert was not surprised when Samuel abandoned the present vein of their conversation for one of his more burning questions.

“Wait, so if you’re a police officer and Jean was a criminal… was that how you met? Was he changed because you offered him mercy?”

No, _he_ had changed because Valjean had offered him mercy. “We were both different men then, Jean and I.”

“Earth is lucky to have you both.”

Javert wasn’t sure if he was worthy of such an unqualified declaration of praise.

Samuel took the silence as a signal for the end of the visit. “Thank you, sir. For coming here, for talking. For even all those times you visited me when we were in the rift. They… meant a lot to me. I suppose this is goodbye.” He looked up. “Is there anything I can do? I mean, not that I can do much, but to thank you in return, for your advice?”

There was one thing. He waited until Samuel fully understood the utter seriousness of what he was about to demand. “Promise me this: if Jean pays you a visit before we depart with the Doctor, I was never here, and you most certainly did not hear me offer you any words of encouragement.”

If Valjean ever found out about this conversation, Javert would rather die of mortification than become the life-long object of proud praises and wide grins that Valjean was sure to send his way.

-

Clara spent some time with Novice Hame before returning to the TARDIS, fulfilling the Doctor’s promise on his behalf for a tour of New New York’s hospital. The hospital was magnificent, with medical advances far beyond what Clara could imagine. There were entire units dedicated to the research and treatment for diseases she had never even heard of. And healthcare was available and accessible to all, as long as Novice Hame and her team of emerging doctor trainees had the resources and capacity to tend to incoming patients.

“This is going to be a great hospital,” Clara said as they walked past the children’s unit. Several trainee nurses were putting on a puppet show for an assorted group of humans and cat-children all looking like they were well on their way to recovery.

“That is what I strive for, yes,” Novice Hame said. “But it’s going to take many more years before all the departments are fully staffed, and an even longer time before the hospital can return to its former glory when the Doctor first visited New New York in the year five billion twenty-three. Maybe you’ll get to see it the next time you and the Doctor visit. Do you always travel with the Doctor?”

Clara laughed. “Believe it or not, only on Wednesdays. Although Wednesday in my timeline can mean many days in the TARDIS, like this trip I'm on right now. I’m a teacher, or will be. I was just offered a position as an English teacher a few days ago. The reality hasn’t hit me yet. Until now I’ve been a caretaker of two children. Once I start teaching, I’ll have thirty, fifty, eighty! I don’t feel ready.”

“We all feel inadequate sometimes,” Novice Hame said.

“But you must be different. You’re the Matron! You know everything there is to know about treating the sick and running a hospital.”

Novice Hame blushed. “You’re too kind, Clara. When this hospital was at its peak, our medical research practices were dubious at best. This is our first try at rebuilding the city’s healthcare industry the proper way. And goodness, I can hardly claim mastery in mentoring the medical trainees. If you dread the thought of a full class of students looking at you on your first day, imagine my first day, under the gaze and expectations of thousands!”

“Well you turned out okay, didn’t you? You’re great!”

“Thank you.” Novice Hame smiled. “And so will you, Clara.”

Clara returned the smile. Yes, she would be great.

-

Jean Valjean walked into the maximum security portion of the police station cells, where prisoners were kept in solitary confinement—entirely isolated from all traces of the outside world—before being transferred into prison. Forced isolation was the worst form of torture. The lashes he could bear, for the pain would subside and the wounds would heal. But to be shut off from the world, to be forgotten except for a meal each day pushed through the bars—that wound had never quite healed properly, and it pained him to see that even five billion years into the future, criminals were still treated as less than human.

In this lower level of the police station, all but one of the cells were empty. He could feel hostile eyes trained on him even before he stepped in close enough to see a familiar face glaring daggers at him.

“So, _Mayor_ , is it?” the raspy voice mocked. “I should have known. You were always so good to that police mole of yours who has a rod permanently stuck up his arse.”

Valjean nodded. “Good afternoon, Monsieur Jacoby. M. Madeleine from Montreuil-sur-Mer, at your service. And yes, I do find Javert to be rather unyielding at times.”

Jacoby looked like a ghost of his disagreeable but lively self in the rift world. His anger at being deceived seemed to be the sole fuel for keeping him upright. Valjean knew Jacoby’s dilemma all too well: to hold onto what shred of dignity that remained through hatred, or to resign oneself, meekly and as nothing but an outer shell devoid of the man within, to face a lifetime of cell walls and prison food in New New York again.

Twenty years ago, the young Jean Valjean had chosen hatred. Today, he hoped he would be able to offer Jacoby something other than two impossible choices.

Valjean drew near to the holding cell, close enough so that when he bared an arm, Jacoby could see the scars on his wrist. “I am not here to gloat, and I am most certainly not here to apologize. I have never once acted out of deception. I may be Mayor, but I’m also a convict—Jean Valjean from Faverolles, France. A galley slave for nineteen years in Toulon and a parole breaker with a life sentence hanging over my head. Everything I claimed to be in the rift world is still true.”

Jacoby’s beady eyes acquired a curious gleam as he looked from the arm to Valjean’s face. Those eyes narrowed further into a squint. “How is this possible? So no one never found you out?”

“Javert did. But he and I came to an agreement.” _For now_ , Valjean reminded himself. Their agreement was nearing its expiration date. “Just like in the rift, we support each other. He extended the truce, and it was up to me to prove myself worthy of his trust.”

For a moment, Jacoby seemed to consider the possibility of a life not behind bars, before reality struck him and he spat in bitterness. “Well that’s all good for you, Jean. The coppers here ain’t got no flexibility.”

“It’s their duty to be inflexible,” Valjean agreed, using the relaxed tone that he had come to employ with the criminals during their mealtime conversations in the rift. “But the Senate is more willing to listen. And believe it or not, all of us collectively have earned New New York five billion dollars thanks to our imprisonment. The city owes you something.”

“What do I get out of it?” Ever the practical soul when it came to matters pertaining to his self interest, Jacoby was. Valjean felt the easing of his uncertainty. This could work.

He extended his offer: “A chance to be productive, to be the planner that you have shown yourself to be. No, please listen. You organized our hunting routes. You coordinated with Candace to develop daily schedules for fetching water and gathering fruit. You can think quickly and solve problems as they arise. It would be a pity to let you languish in prison while New New York is in need of talents such as yours.”

“So… they letting me go?”

Valjean shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. But you will get to work alongside other New New York citizens. During the day, you will appear no different than the free men you will be working with. You will be under supervision, of course, but I’m led to believe that there are unintrusive security measures that the city’s advanced technology can accommodate. In the evening, you will be returned to prison. However, I have requested you to be given access to electronic missives and maintain communication with the outside world to the extent that your work duty requires.” He waited until Jacoby fully processed what was being offered to him, paying close attention to what appeared to be excitement spreading across his formerly forelorn face. “What do you say, Jacoby? Interested?”

The look he gave Valjean was confirmation enough. But Jacoby was still hesitant, the fear that he understood all too well as a fellow criminal, never fully believing that anything good in his life would remain.

“You gave me unlimited chances, Jean. I lost count of how many times I fought with the others in that world. They won’t tolerate my violence here.”

“You initiated fewer fights after Javert’s arrival, which is sufficient evidence for your improvement. Look, this will take getting used to. I will do what I can to make Hargrave understand the support you’ll need to transition back into society. But you must also take responsibility.” He made sure Jacoby was taking it all in. Ultimately, it would be up to him to steer his own fate. “You have the opportunity to make something good out of your life, Jacoby. Seize it, with God’s grace. Show others the capable man that I’ve had the privilege to come to know.”

Jacoby did decide. By the time Valjean had finished speaking, the prisoner was standing taller, his chest puffed out and his spine straighter. Valjean concluded that he liked this look on him, the pride of a man who had had his dignity restored, whose confidence was based not on violent aggression but from the esteem of onself that grew out of having had his value recognized by others.

“You wait and see, Jean, I’ll prove you right and prove all them Senators and coppers wrong. I know you won’t be around to see it, but I’m gonna do this fer you.”

“I believe you,” Valjean said, willing Jacoby to hear his sincerity in every word.

“Thank you, Jean—I mean, _Mayor_. What’s that word they use in New Paris? _Miss-sure_.”

Valjean smiled. “Jean will do. I will always be known as Jean to my friends in the rift.”

“Ah, but that wouldn’t be proper. And you deserve to be treated with respect! How ’bout Mayor Jean? Like it? Yes, Mayor Jean, I owe you for giving me another chance again.”

“Be an honest man from now on. That would be payment enough for your gratitude.”

“An honest man, me? I can’t say this is something possible, but I’ll try. For you, I will try.” Jacoby gave him one of those looks that he once reserved for promising Candace a particularly bountiful fruit harvest and then following through with it. “So, Mayor Jean, back in your city, do you grant second chances to your people too?”

“I do, and I’ll continue to do so for as long as God will allow.” _And as one Inspector Javert will allow_ , who, after all, was not so forgiving. Unyielding and with a rod up his arse, indeed.

“Well, your people sure are lucky. And that police mole too. Javert’d better not be so stupid as to let you go.”

“I don’t suppose he will,” Valjean said, knowing that the irony dripping from every word was completely lost on Jacoby. In a manner of speaking, he was and had been, for months, Javert’s. Though it was for completely the wrong reasons.

Jacoby couldn’t have possibly known what he was talking about. No, none of the prisoners in the rift understood. What they thought they saw develop between him and Javert was but an illusion. They were all wrong.

-

The Doctor pressed the button that began flashing on the TARDIS console. “Hellooooo, Tobias!” he cheered to no one in particular. The console gave a _ding_. “Welcome back to New New York,” he said as the monitor now confirmed that the last of the hostages purchased to serve substitutionary sentences had now returned home. The Doctor was glad that he had the foresight to patch the rift manipulator into the TARDIS console. It was better to leave the actual rift manipulator behind so that it would no longer fall into the wrong hands. He pushed a series of buttons. There, he had sealed the rift. Unless a Jack Harkness from an earlier time figured out how to re-open it, access to that dark realm should be barred to all life forms forever.

The case of the disappearing New New Yorkers was closed for good.

The Doctor’s mind turned to other things. Yes, the case was over, but there was another issue not yet resolved, in the form of a very stubborn police inspector.

Javert didn’t like him very much, that was clear. He was more or less fine with that. Going from almost choking him into another regeneration to saving his life from the hands of John Hart, that was real progress. The inspector was incredibly intelligent when it came to the matters of the mind and fiercely loyal when he needed to act upon matters of duty. Matters of the heart… well, the Doctor couldn’t claim to be very good at that either, but even he could see that things were _still_ not right between his two French companions, and time was running out.

Ever since they returned to New New York, though, things were different. Those two were no longer trying to play, quite literally, thief and cop with each other. The new game they now played was called Taking Turns Staring At Each Other While the Other Person Is Not Looking. This also meant they were avoiding each other and not using the time they still had to work out the very tricky dilemma that the Doctor knew Inspector Javert still faced.

It took him a while to figure it out, but when he later saw that he had left Jean Valjean’s profile still up in the background of the TARDIS’s monitor, the Doctor realized what was wrong. He had shown a slice of the future to someone as unyielding in following the law as he himself was prone to bend the rules of the universe to fit his whimsy. If Javert hadn’t seen what he was going to do, he may have been willing to think up alternative solutions to get around Madeleine’s past. But having Jean Valjean’s future dictated to him took away any incentive Javert would have to work out another way, and this was all his fault.

The Doctor had hoped that the closer rapport between Javert and Madeleine would help. But all he saw in the past few hours were Madeleine’s growing sadness and that constipated look on Javert telling him that the inspector was trying very hard not to care that he was going to return to Earth to do something terrible. The man was so focused on doing the right thing, he’d never see other alternatives before him even if they came in the form of flashing signs with cheerful noises and spinning arrows pointing to those signs.

The last blow came when Javert insisted on arresting Sam Laftner, forcing the Doctor to conclude that the inspector was incapable of extending mercy. For all that Javert had tried to make something of his life and not fall into the same fate of his convict father, he was actually the one imprisoned, shackled to the law with no hope of ever escaping its judgment.

The Doctor pondered on his newfound revelation. If he needed to do anything, to save Madeleine from Javert and Javert from himself, he must find a way to break Javert from the bondage of the law.

He waited in the TARDIS’s console room. He needed to talk to Javert. He had sent Clara off to the hospital to be his representative to go on one of Novice Hame’s tours. Madeleine was still meeting with the Senators to iron out the details of his new prisoner reform plan that, against all odds, he was able to persuade the Senate to adopt. On top of that, Madeleine had more or less become a substitute Senator as the other four Senators were doing all they could to convince Sanator Laftner not to resign from his post after what happened to his son. There was no way either Madeleine or Clara would return soon. He should have at least a good hour to wait for Javert’s return and speak with him privately.

As if on cue, the TARDIS door opened to admit the inspector. The Doctor still couldn’t stop marveling at this. The Old Girl was always very picky about who to let in. Somehow she had granted Javert the same status as River, admitting him inside without the need of a key. This must mean there was something incredibly amazing about Javert that the TARDIS saw in him. The Doctor had never doubted his beloved ship. Based on that alone, he was willing to try changing Javert’s mind.

Javert looked around. “You’ve sent the others away on errands. Say what you have to say.”

“Oh, Javert, incredible Javert, I don’t know how to thank you for solving the case!”

Javert rolled his eyes. Over-the-top praise wasn’t something that worked on him, the Doctor had expected as much. But he really did want to thank Javert.

“Look,” he began again, “I know you don’t like me much, but I hope after what we’ve been through, we’ve at least come to some sort of understanding. I don’t need you to like me, I have plenty of other people all around me willing to do that. What I like is your level-headedness, your sharp mind. So I’m going to ask you to apply your sharp mind to one last thing.”

Javert walked up the steps and approached the console. When he was close enough, he crossed his arms in that inspector-y way that made him look even taller than he already was. The Doctor was glad that he didn’t sense any bad vibes aside from mild irritation coming from Javert.

“If this is about Valjean, I will tell you now that it’s none of your business.”

The Doctor found himself very much not agreeing. “But it _is_ my business! I was careless, I made a mistake. I know what you saw on the monitor. It was knowledge you shouldn’t have known. It kept you from trying to determine a different future. I’m sorry.”

Javert raised his pressed lips to his nose, throwing the apology back at the Doctor. This conversation was off to a very bad start.

“You of all people, _Time Lord_ , should know I don’t have a choice. Valjean’s future is set because my future action is set. Your spaceship told me so.”

“That’s not true!” the Doctor protested. Escalating their exchange into an argument wasn’t going to work either. He tried another tactic. “Okay, let’s suppose that the future can be changed—which it can, by the way, I’m not just making this up. But looking at this on a purely philosophical level, if you have a choice to go home and continue being friends with Madeleine and just give him the chance to redeem himself through his future good deeds, will you do it?”

That constipated look was back on Javert’s face. The Doctor supposed it was a good thing, since this meant the inspector was at least considering his question seriously. But as each second passed, the hope in his hearts sank bit by bit into frustration. After a full minute, the Doctor already knew what the answer would be without Javert saying a word.

“No,” Javert eventually said, confirming what the Doctor already figured out.

Knowing his answer didn’t stop him from throwing his hands up in frustration. “Why? Why are you so stubborn? Can’t you see the good that a little bit of mercy is going to bring for everybody? Or are you so determined to throw everyone into complete misery—including yourself, I should add, for it’s obvious that you don’t hate Madeleine anymore—just so you can preserve your stuck-up ego of keeping a perfect record of obeying the law?”

Javert, to his credit, ignored the Doctor’s name-calling. It was always down to cool-headed logic for the inspector.

“Because, Doctor, where there is an offense, a payment must be exacted. I cannot play God and cancel a transgression—even he had to transfer sin’s guilt to his son. And the Law cannot turn a blind eye and pretend that restitution is not necessary for the wronged party.”

“Javert…” The name rolled off his tongue like a plea, a last attempt at drawing out any emotion other than righteous judgment from the person who bore that name. Javert stood before him, unmoved. The Doctor reached a hand to his bow tie, pulling at it to ease the growing constriction he seemed to be feeling around his neck. He had one last card to play, the riskiest of all. But Madeleine was worth it. _Javert_ was worth it. Trading himself for two people and a whole city in France was more than a worthwhile bargain.

The Doctor placed both hands against one of the control panels, silently supplicating the TARDIS to lend him strength to go through with what he was about to say. Leaning forward, he met Javert’s grey eyes and willed himself to speak straight into the inspector’s soul.

“You want to know about crime and punishment, Javert? I’ll tell you what you’ve always wanted to know, what you’ve only heard in bits and pieces from my words to John Hart. I’m going to tell you who I am and what I’ve done, why I travel around trying to be the best person I can be.

“I killed my people, all of them. There was a war. It was either destroy all the Time Lords and the Daleks, a vicious alien race we were fighting against, or let the entire universe be destroyed as collateral damage. I chose to commit genocide to two of the greatest races that ever existed. Some say I chose to let the universe live. But to have the world go on and my people gone, what kind of living is that? You want to know why I was never brought to justice for what I did? Because there is no one left to do it—no Time Lords, no Daleks, just me!”

His eyes were burning with the ghosts of tears that wouldn’t come, because he had stopped crying hundreds of years ago; crying had never come close to making things better. But his harrowed look must have had some impact on Javert, for the usually sharp-tongued inspector was, for once, willing to listen to more.

“I condemn myself, everyday, yes. But I don’t wallow in that condemnation. Do you know why? It’s because I live with the knowledge that everwhere I go, every civilization that still thrives and every person I meet, all of that is the result of what I did. My actions brought death, but so much more life. All of existence is the result of what I did! And you know what? Had I done the right thing according to your laws, to not kill and not annihilate two whole races, you wouldn’t be standing here today, or heck, _I_ wouldn’t be still alive and breathing. I did what I knew was wrong because in that moment, doing the wrong thing was the best option I had. I paid for the universe’s continued existence by the blood on my hands.”

The Doctor looked to Javert, who remained silent, uncharacteristic for a defender of the law with a rapier tongue when it came to proclaiming the virtue of justice. It was then that he suddenly realized, his eyes opening to the furrowed brows and pursed lips of the inspector, that the lack of willingness was no longer Javert’s hurdle. He had been willing to stay with Madeleine and get to know him during the past few months; he was willing now to withhold judgment on the Doctor, because there was neither the need nor the desire for him to enforce Time Lord law. It was the inability to escape from the letters of the law—to be like the Doctor himself—that now trapped Javert.

The Doctor sighed. If only he could loose Javert from the shackles of his merciless master and free him toward what was _right!_ To step away from enslaving himself under cold obligation would be a decision only Javert could make for himself. But the Doctor would do everything in his power to help nudge the inspector toward the light, toward a world that was filled with so many wonderful colors besides black and white. To see options. _Possibilities_.

“Javert, even if you decide never to talk to me again, or never to have anything to do with me as soon as you return to Earth, please just hear me on this one thing: time can be rewritten. Trust me in this, please. I’m a Time Lord. You don’t have to do what you think you must do. You have the choice to do what you know deep inside is right—what your conscience says is right, not the law. Listen to me, Javert. You _can_ change the future.”

-

That evening, Jean Valjean stood outside the room that the TARDIS made for Javert, hand raised to knock, but hesitating, frozen. Javert had reverted back to the inspector the moment they returned to New New York. He was referred to once again as Madeleine (in public) and Valjean (among their travel mates), someone that Javert had kept at a distance, no longer welcomed to get too close into his personal space.

Valjean had later heard, from a young police officer relaying the message in the presence of a stricken Senator Laftner: Javert did not yield in his insistence to arrest Sam Laftner, unmoved by the Doctor’s plea, refusing to grant him time to first go to his father. Valjean wondered who now lay on the other side of the door. Had Javert resumed his role as the exactor of justice? Or—he allowed this brief thought of hope—was his _cogne_ still there, somewhere, willing to suffer Valjean’s presence during this last segment of their adventure?

Before Valjean could gather up the courage to bring his hand to knock, the door opened, revealing raised eyebrows accompanied by the rolling of eyes.

“How long have you been standing here, you fool?”

Valjean lowered his hand, allowing the spreading blush on his face to serve as an answer. Javert regarded him some seconds longer, then stood aside to let him enter. Grateful and relieved, Valjean stepped inside. He sat down on a chair that Javert indicated, a sturdy piece of craftsmanship adorned with plush cushions that was fitting to the TARDIS’s tendency to lavish its occupants with small luxuries. Opposite him was a reclining couch that Javert had obviously been resting on. The inspector chose to sit upright at the foot of the recliner, facing Valjean.

“It’s good to have light again,” Valjean said. It was an attempt at small talk, but the words came out more heartfelt than he intended. He was glad to make this confession to someone who also had spent months in the darkness. However insignificant his remark, Javert would understand.

“And warmth,” Javert agreed.

As if offering to make up for their months of deprivation, the room suddenly glowed brighter, the growing warmth accompanied by the soothing hum of the TARDIS.

Out of habit, Valjean lifted his head as if to the skies, and was amazed at the sight of swirling constellations and twinkling stars that greeted him on the ceiling. “Your room, it comes with stars.”

He felt Javert’s eyes joining his in gazing upward. “The TARDIS,” Javert said, as if it explained everything. Valjean thought back to the chapel that the spaceship had created just for him. He supposed it did explain everything. This was the final night of their truce, and it was good to spend it doing the one thing they had treasured while in the rift world, finding comfort in each other’s company through searching the sky.

Silently, they marked the movements of swirling galaxies. They observed the twinkling of a red giant that seemed to fade in and out of existence among a cluster of neighboring stars. Their eyes trailed the paths of comets. Every so often, Valjean would fix his eyes on dark patches in the heavens, where there were neither stars nor planets, and found beauty even in the void of nothingness. At some point during their gazing, Javert had transferred himself to the other chair in the room, which he moved adjacent to Valjean’s.

They did not talk. Everything that needed explaining, solving, discussing, and forgiving had already been said. During these final hours, there was nothing left to do but to cling to the other person’s company, consuming, hungrily, as much of their familiar presence as possible, a vain attempt at storing up what would never be enough to live on once they returned to their lives in the past. The TARDIS’s stars seemed to whisper promises of eternity. Valjean wondered if this was what the Doctor always sensed, the relentless passing of time, the dying and new beginnings of galaxies.

Gradually—it had happened without their awareness—the room dimmed to bring out the brilliance of the stars, but not so dark as to reawaken their memories of the despair of the rift. The temperature remained warm, but their hands found each other’s nonetheless, a habit formed in Darkness that was now reaffirmed in the realm of Light.

After what felt like hours, Valjean sensed a tentative press on his hands and uncertain eyes searching his face. “To bed?” The _if you’d like_ , _would you grant this_ , or even a simple _please_ left unspoken, but rang loudly in his ears.

“To bed,” Valjean echoed, and lifted them both out of their chairs. This wouldn’t be the sharing of warmth—the room was already warm—or an excuse to stay close to defend against the rift. This was Javert’s companionship freely offered and freely taken, and Valjean vowed to treasure every moment of it.

-

Javert observed Valjean as he slept, as he always did, the faithful guard watching over his master. His heart burned, the rawness of warring emotions torturing him with unfamiliar twistings and constrictions—sensations that he could neither understand nor banish into a state of un-feeling. Carefully, almost reverently, he pressed his lips to Valjean’s temple. Valjean didn’t stir; he would never know about this act of treachery. Javert had leant in for a benediction, but he had sullied it, pulling away from what now felt like a kiss of betrayal.

He must have drifted off to sleep at some point, for in the morning, Valjean was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, comments and feedback are much appreciated.


	20. Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey's end for Valjean and Javert. Our heroes return home, together.

They both entered the kitchen looking for coffee.

“Ready to go home?” Valjean asked. His voice was conversational, but Javert could read tension in the way that Valjean fisted his hand around the mug as if clinging to his life and in the way that he held his body a little too stiffly.

“No,” he said, honestly.

“Neither am I,” Valjean admitted.

“I –”

“You need to do your duty, I know.” Valjean cut him off. “A year ago, I would have fought you every step of the way. But I’m tired, Javert. I’m tired.”

He was tired too. Of hunting. Of trying to convince himself that doing the right thing was not wrong.

“Jean, if there’s another way, I will follow it,” he promised.

Judging by the resignation in Valjean’s eyes, Javert knew the man had understood his words as a death sentence instead. He drank his coffee in quick gulps, letting the bitterness burn in his throat. Whom was he fooling? There was no promise of another way when the future was written in stone.

He set his mug down and turned to exit the kitchen. But Valjean, like the three-headed Cerberus guarding the underworld to prevent souls from leaving the realm of the dead, had moved to the door, blocking the way to keep his inspector boxed in.

“I was in the chapel this morning. I went there because despite all the grace God has shown me, I still have fear. So I prayed to God and to the saints. I asked for strength to face what is ahead, and if at all possible, if God sees an alternative where I do not, that he would be merciful and grant me a different future. There was no flashing lightning or miraculous delivery, Javert, only silence. And I struggled—I did! For a moment, I almost lost my faith again. But I clung to the promise that God hears those who call on him, and I yielded to his will.”

Valjean spoke as if to a confessor, and Javert stared, unsure of how to respond. If he were still his old self, he would have accused Valjean of deception, of being a devil trying to disguise himself as an angel of light. And before spending time in the rift world, he would have viewed this as Valjean’s attempt to guilt him into changing his mind. Neither would have worked, and neither, it seemed, was Valjean’s present motive.

Javert heard instead a man admitting his vulnerability and his fear, the baring of his soul. This was a challenge—a gentle invitation, but a challenge nonetheless—for Javert to do the same.

Valjean waited patiently, as always. Javert hadn’t thought they needed to talk, but Valjean always seemed to know when such acts were necessary, and in this, he trusted Valjean. So he looked inward.

The foremost thing on his mind was time. Javert tried to calculate the time they still had. At the beginning of their adventure, the TARDIS had stopped mid-space for a day in response to Novice Hame’s summons, to her prayers on behalf of New New York. Was there any prayer that could halt their journey back to Earth? Or would the Doctor return them to the proper time and place with uncharacteristic precision, a feat that, when done correctly, only required minutes?

He had once thought he’d be eager to return home. But now, he would exchange his future for just one more day inside the rift.

And then it occurred to him…

 _He_ had a future to trade, even if the bargain was hypothetical. Valjean would have none.

The thought flashed across his mind like a too-bright light scorching mercilessly upon his soul. And like anything too holy to behold, the purity jolted Javert’s instincts and he tried to flee, tried to take cover under what had kept him so sure and confident over the years. He sought comfort under the Law—infallible, objective statutes that would praise him for upholding justice at the expense of destroying a man’s future. His mind dug deep for rules that ought not to be broken, lest the threats whispering his descent back into the gutters clamor too loudly and the jeers and taunts from the slums would pull him under. Javert had long ago resolved to never return to his shameful roots. So with the determination of a convict he once knew who tried to escape too many times, he sought protection under each law that rose like a wellspring from his heart, hurling every _thou shalt not_ and _be it resolved_ against a man with white hair and a gracious heart who would no longer have a name and a future.

And yet the man’s name kept returning like waves crashing against the seashore, and Javert’s mind screamed _Jean Valjean_ even as he tried in vain to change the name to _convict_ , to _thief_ , and to _parole breaker_. Against Jean Valjean, every law he threw against him dashed like broken pottery and crumbled away like a pillar of salt, for this white-haired man bore another name: the Creator of mercy had looked upon Jean Valjean and had declared him _mine_. Against this mercy, this Giver of Law who also took away the sting of his Law, human law had no power, and Javert found himself without cover under the scorching light that pursued him. This light refused all excuses, and as Javert stared into his soul, he was horrified to find there the opposite of goodness and virtue; instead, darkness and folly loomed like a gaping abyss waiting to swallow him, and the finger that he had long directed toward others was pointing back at him.

Javert, disciple of the Law, was guilty. Sending Valjean back to Toulon was nothing short of a reprehensible act, and he was going to do it, completely and utterly, out of his own free will. Denying Valjean his future was never inevitable. Though the law had guided his life and the TARDIS had shown him the future, what he had claimed he _must_ do was nonetheless a choice. The law would never excuse him from taking responsibility for his own actions. He could not claim innocence as either a slave or a victim under the law.

And the most damnable blow of all was that, even when he now realized he had the choice, the power, the _freedom_ , to embrace mercy over the law, he—not out of obligation or duty, but Javert, fully himself and fully responsible for his actions— _could not_.

Valjean was waiting for him to bare his soul, and his soul he shall have.

“What I’m going to do… it will be of my own free choice.” Not what he _had_ to do. This was his first and last confession. His own words condemned him, finally revealing the wretch that he truly was, a wretch who had no right to rage against his lot when he had chosen to spit mercy in its face. And yet he still sought… something. “Jean, I’m sorry.”

Valjean looked as if he were going to say _there was nothing to apologize for_ , before he seemed to have understood the agony behind those three words. “I know,” he said instead, and something inside Javert shattered. He had no right—none whatsoever!—to feel gratitude at being absolved of a crime that he was going to commit. _He_ should be the one going to the galleys. That would be just and would put his mind at peace. He should be punished, to be allowed to suffer for his sins instead of being forgiven by Valjean, over and over again.

It wasn’t until strong arms embraced him that Javert realized his knees had gone weak and that his body was shaking. He had spurned mercy all his life, and yet mercy was what he now clutched at, offered by the man who in all his right should be the one in agony and feeling hopeless. And yet true strength came from mercy—this much Javert was able to see. He, who knew no mercy most of his life and had grown too proud to know how to properly receive it, was a decayed bone who only appeared strong on the outside. One crack to his beliefs, one challenge to his world view, and Javert no longer knew of a universe that would allow him to exist. If Valjean were not here with him, Javert would have tried to hurl himself into space through the first exit the TARDIS would allow him to pry open. But Valjean refused to let go, forcing mercy into him, and he had no strength left in him to fight against kindness and grace.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said, words of surrender muffled into Valjean’s clothes.

“Javert…” The voice was gentle, sad but without pity, never pity. “There is nothing for you to earn. Whatever you take, if you so choose, is and always will be freely given.” _Including my freedom_ , Javert heard, and knew Valjean had spoken it without using words.

Everything, freely and willingly offered, with no conditions.

He had only read about unconditional love in the scriptures, perfect love given by a perfect God that he had always regarded as the true embodiment of justice. He had never for a second pretended, since he was old enough to think on his own as a boy, that what care his mother had provided for him was unconditional, or that it was love. Between an impersonal God and the lack of parental affection, Javert had long since given up hope of ever knowing love. Yet… was this what had happened, that against all things logical and sensible, he had somehow earned (no, not earned, there was nothing to earn) Valjean’s love?

What did one do with offered love? Javert knew that nothing he could muster up in return would be close to acceptable, so when he raised his head and saw that despite the sadness, the heat he had come to know so well in the rift was still in that gaze, he chose to offer up the only gift left that he could still give.

Their lips first touched tentatively, the awkward meeting of mouths between two inexperienced men. But even the lightest pressure set off a jolt of heat that flared from the pit of Javert’s stomach, and his tongue began to probe, tracing the contours of Valjean’s lips that tasted of coffee doused with too much sugar. Those lips hesitated for a moment before parting, and then Valjean was no longer reserved, claiming him with a clash of teeth and tongue. Javert welcomed the sensation of relinquishing control, of giving himself over wholly to Jean Valjean. Each breath he drew smelled of warmth and sunlight, of a dark world with three moons and a sky dotted with stars, of things—and a man—that were full of contradictions and never seemed to make sense.

When Valjean stopped to gasp for air, Javert leaned in and traced kisses from the corner of his mouth and down his jaw, pushing down Valjean’s necktie with his chin, pressing his lips on every inch of revealed skin. His mouth ghosted over Valjean's pulses, feeling every muscle movement of his throat. He relished each breathless gasp he was able to elicit from Valjean. Valjean tasted like the sea of Toulon that turned into the sea of Montreuil, the salt of one that imprinted those iron-cast scars on his neck and of the other that had softened them over the years. Javert caressed each ridge, wishing he could kiss the nightmare of the galleys away, praying for a reprieve that he didn't know how to extend. But he tried nonetheless, with open-mouth kisses offered to both the convict and the mayor, and ultimately, simply, to Jean Valjean.

“Javert,” Valjean whispered—it was a more beautiful sound than his name had the right to be—a gentle plea for him to stop before they both passed the point of going too far. It took all his remaining strength to pull away, and as he did so, Javert drank in the sight of Valjean’s flushed face and his lips in the color of dark wine.

They stood gazing at each other, heedless of time passing inside a ship that had control over all of time. They stayed like this until the coffee grew cold and the milk turned warm.

“We should go,” Valjean said at last, straightening his torso in resolve. Having long lost the ability to refuse Valjean, Javert followed him, stepping out of the kitchen a humbled man.

Both men were silent when they entered the console room. The Doctor first caught Javert’s eyes. His inner turmoil must have been written clearly on his face, for the Doctor looked almost cross and shook his head in warning.

His face then brightened at the sight of Valjean.

“Ah Madeleine, Jean Valjean, good morning!” the Doctor greeted. “I was up early this morning and thought, why not just one more trip? We’ve gone to the future, so how about the past? What do you say? Are you interested?”

Without waiting for a response, the Doctor pushed buttons and turned dials on the TARDIS console. “A special trip just for you, Mr. Mayor. Here we go!”

-

Jean Valjean stepped outside the TARDIS, breathing in familiar air that flooded his memories back to this same place, same time, five years ago. Time seemed to have stood still, nothing had changed. He reminded himself that it was the same day, that on that same morning, the young Jean Valjean had left the Bishop’s home with a bag full of stolen silver, and that mere hours later, he had spat the Bishop’s mercy back in his face by robbing a boy.

The path in front of him was unfamiliar at first, but if he squinted, he could make out two paths merging into one about half a mile ahead, and his memories brought him back to this same fork in the road. Anyone traveling from the opposite direction would have to choose to veer either to the left or to the right. The dusty path on which he now stood was the one to the right. Five years ago, he had taken the path to the left.

It didn’t take him long to find a small form hunched in the shadows, head hung low and body shaking from the sheer force of his sobs. Valjean’s heart ached at the sight. God, what distress he had caused! With silent, almost reverent steps, he approached the boy.

“Petit Gervais.”

The boy didn’t seem to hear him and kept on crying. Slowly, Jean Valjean got down on his knees so he was face-to-face with the boy.

“Petit Gervais.”

Red-rimmed, puffy eyes looked at him. Jean Valjean detected confusion, but Petit Gervais was too distraught to feel scared. Digging in his pocket, he held up a handkerchief. “Here.” A grubby hand snatched up the handkerchief and rubbed it over both eyes, mouth, and nose.

“Petit Gervais,” Jean Valjean began, “I know what happened. A very bad man had been mean to you. He not only stole your silver coin, but he made you feel terrible. I’m sorry.”

“Monsieur –” he said between hiccups, “He stole – he stole my piece! – I begged him – him to give me back – but he – he yelled me away –”

Petit Gervais blew his nose loudly.

Jean Valjean waited until the boy calmed. How long it took, he didn’t know. His knees ached but he didn’t shift. For such a crime as robbing a boy—not only of 40 _sous_ but of his innocence and trust in the good of mankind—the pain was not nearly penance enough.

As he calmed down, the reality of losing a lot of money dawned on Petit Gervais and he gave a loud wail. “What should I do, Monsieur! I worked hard for the money and now it’s gone!”

Jean Valjean reached out and took the boy’s free hand. “Petit Gervais, listen to me. I have something to tell you. But can you promise to listen fully until I finish?”

The boy nodded.

“Good. Now, the bad man you met, I know him. No, don’t be startled, I think he is a very bad man too. He does not have the light of God in him. He is incapable of doing good. But you see, even the worst man can be stricken by his conscience sometimes, and that is what happened to him. I already told you I know this man. He came to me, right after he chased you away, because he felt very bad for stealing your silver. He asked me –” He fished out a 40 _sou_ coin and put it in the boy’s hand. “– to give the piece back to you. He… he is very sorry.”

Petit Gervais stared at the silver coin as if it were a vision. He opened and closed his hand several times, surprised that each time he loosened his fist, the coin was still there. As each second passed, sadness lifted from the boy’s face and was replaced by joy.

“Oh, Monsieur, how wonderful this is! Thank you, thank you!”

Such was the innocence of children that, his earlier sorrow forgotten, Petit Gervais sprung to his feet and would very soon be singing and dancing again.

“I have my piece back! Monsieur, tell your friend I’m not vexed with him. I won’t go to the police. He gave it back, he’s a good man! Thank you, Monsieur, I think I shall go now.”

Jean Valjean stared after the boy as his tiny form became a speck, and then disappeared altogether in the dark. He remained kneeling.

 _He gave it back, he’s a good man_. The words rang loudly in his ears. He was forgiven! The only person in the world who could have done so—an impossibility before he’d met the Doctor—had given him the absolution he so craved but had never dared to seek.

Somewhere in another part of the countryside, the Jean Valjean from five years ago was overwrought with shame and despair. Here, the older Jean Valjean wept freely from joy.

-

Inside the TARDIS, three pairs of eyes were fixed on the monitor. No one moved.

It was the Doctor who broke the silence. “He doesn’t know we’re watching.” He turned to Javert, waited until he got the inspector’s attention. “He doesn’t know we’re watching. This is not an act. Can you honestly send him back to the galleys?”

Javert said nothing. His lack of justifying his planned action based on the Law was answer enough.

“You don’t have to do what you think you’re destined to do,” the Doctor said, _implored_. “Do the right thing, Javert. You can do it. Change the future.”

-

The goodbyes were subdued, strangers who had become lifelong friends bidding each other farewell. The Doctor said he would visit in the future, but both Valjean and Javert knew that keeping to an accurate time table was never one of the Time Lord’s piloting strengths. Still, even as they bade the Doctor and Clara _adieu_ , both men extended an open invitation for the time travelers to return anytime, promising a warm welcome and an unconditional offer of help should the Doctor require it.

The Doctor shook hands and Clara hugged. Then, Valjean and Javert found themselves alone, facing the TARDIS door, on the precipice of returning to normal life.

“May I say something, Javert, before we break our truce?” Valjean asked. He pushed ahead without waiting for Javert’s response. “I’ve… enjoyed our travels together. It wasn’t easy and we’ve both seen horrors, but I’m glad I was able to fight against the despair in the rift with you.

“Whatever lies ahead, I will not forget our travels. But we are back to our reality. Should you follow me to the mairie to arrest me, I won’t resist.” He snapped his eyes shut. “But by God, Javert, nineteen years for a loaf of bread! I believe I’ve repaid that many times over.”

“You did. Your crime is additional theft.”

Valjean didn’t say anything, a silent acknowledgement of what he had known all along. Javert wanted to look away but couldn’t turn his head even by a little. Valjean was utterly deflated. This look was wrong on him. He should never have to be like this.

“I am going to the constabulary,” he blurted out, announcing every detail of his thoughts just to fill in the silence. “And you too, Valjean. Go tend to your businesses. I have a peculiar feeling that we’re not returned to the precise moment of our departure. We must find out what day it is, and the hour, and what has transpired since we left with the Doctor. Imagine the state of Montreuil-sur-Mer with both its Mayor and Police Inspector gone! We shall do what will be required of us, that is of first importance. I –” He turned to Valjean, searching his face. “I will see you later, once our respective duties are completed?”

He quashed the rising sense of apprehension, the panic that he had come to know so well whenever he entertained the thought of Valjean disappearing, of leaving his life altogether. He was by all accounts offering Valjean the option to flee, if he so choose. And if he did, the chase that would begin anew would no longer be that of a police hunting a criminal, but of a lost man seeking a missing part of himself.

But Valjean seemed to have understood the words not as the question they were meant to be, but as a command. And to the command he nodded, meekly, looking grateful for yet another unanticipated reprieve. “I will be at the mairie or at my factory,” he said.

Javert was out of the TARDIS before the predator in him had the presence of mind to question his loyalty to the law for leaving a wanted criminal behind. Swallowing hard to push his fear aside, he raced to the police station with a singularity of purpose: to forever quell the voice of reason demanding the condemnation of a reoffending convict where Jean Valjean was concerned.

As expected, the moment he entered the constabulary, everyone rose to their feet, eyes staring and mouth gaping. He could detect no fewer than five emotions projected his way: shock, relief, confusion, disappointment (from those who did not like him and whom he equally disliked in return), and, among a select few, gladness. “Out of my way!” he barked, stomping straight toward his desk. He pointed at an unfortunate junior officer too slow to clear out of his path. “You, fetch me today’s paper. Bring me the latest report on all recent police activities. The rest of you, get back to work!”

Before any of his colleagues and subordinates could recover from being stunned into silence, Javert located a well hidden box under his desk and pulled out Valjean’s file, which was inserted inside an unassuming folder that kept a running record of Montreuil-sur-Mer’s instances of broken carts and wagon wheels. Flipping through the thick log to find the thin file slipped among the pages, Javert pulled out the well worn sheet that he knew so well, the one that documented all of Jean Valjean’s outstanding offenses: _October 1815 – Failed to present himself to authorities, violation of parole._ To ensure he didn’t miss anything, he flipped the paper over. The back side was blank.

There was no mention of Valjean’s theft of the Gervais boy’s 40 _sous_. The Doctor had done it. Valjean’s single reported incident of further criminal activity had been wiped clear by time travel.

-

The hour was long past sundown when Javert found Valjean in his office at the factory, entering income and expenses and trying his best to reconcile accounts that had been left untouched for the past two weeks. Valjean had sent everybody home—he could tell by the use of his flashlight, perched on the edge of the work desk shining onto his documents, supplementing the weaker, flickering glow cast by the candle lights.

“Two weeks!” Valjean said by way of greeting. “It’s a miracle that the province didn’t alert the King. The townsfolk here kept everything quiet. They were so sure of my return.”

“And they’re correct,” Javert pointed out. He sat down on one of the chairs in front of the desk, leaning back into the seat in a relaxed posture. He was here as Javert to talk with Jean Valjean, not as a subordinate giving a report to M. Madeleine. “My favorite tale is the one in which we have been taken by Dutch pirates and are returned only because your impeccable virtue pricked the consciences of our abductors.”

Valjean laughed. “One of my workers accused the Doctor and Clara of witchcraft, for turning my hair white. That is the most astute theory thus far.”

“While the better part of the constabulary has managed to make the connection between our peculiar visitors’ appearance and our disappearance. It seems there is hope for France’s police force yet.”

They exchanged looks of amusement before Valjean turned back to his documents and signed his name on several sheets of paper. His brows were concentrated as his lips moved in silent recitation. It occurred to Javert that it was toward the final years in Toulon when Valjean started to study the letters. For a man who had only learned to read and write a handful of years ago, his fluency in literature and the politics of the day would put any learned man to shame.

When Valjean raised his head again, his brows were still knitted. “Javert, I’m going to need more time. The amount of accounting that has been left unattended, it is madness.”

Ah, yes, he was here to arrest Valjean. “And you’re so certain that I would grant it?”

Valjean graced him with one of those Madeleine smiles, though this one was accompanied by a hint of impertinence in those brown eyes. “Yes.”

Of their own accord, Javert’s lips twitched in response. Breaking the moment, however, he pulled himself upright in his seat, rehearsing the words he had planned to say as he waited until he had Valjean’s full attention. In mere seconds, the air around them had turned serious. “Jean,” he began, letting the cherished name gently roll off his tongue, “when I returned to the police station today, the first thing I did was to pull out your file. You are no longer wanted for robbing silver from the boy. In fact, there is not a trace of your having committed any further act of theft.”

Valjean let out his held breath. “So I am no longer wanted by the law?”

“Unfortunately, no. You are still wanted for breaking parole. There is yet an outstanding warrant for your arrest.”

“Ah.” All traces of hope and optimism drained from Valjean’s face. The Doctor may have given him the opportunity to right a wrong against another person, but it was impossible for him to cross his own timeline to negate his one remaining crime. “So, two days, perhaps? I will work as quickly as I can –”

“Are you such a glutton for the galleys?” Javert snapped, keeping himself from either laughing or sobbing out of frustration, he didn’t know which. Must he spell out everything for Valjean?

Apparently, yes, for Valjean was looking at him like a fool. Clearly his mind was incapable of options other than becoming a fugitive or retuning to prison. Just like his own mind was incapable of seeing anything beyond black and white, he supposed, until the Doctor forced him to realize the future was not set in stone, and until Jean Valjean had finally helped him to understand mercy. Javert pressed on, “The purpose of parole is so that the authorities will always know where an ex-offender is. You don’t have to go to Toulon to be tracked. I know where you are.”

Javert thought he heard a gasp. Valjean’s hands were shaking. Several sheets of paper slipped onto the floor.

“Taking justice into your own hands, Javert?”

“I’m merely enforcing the law. That is the extent of my power, is it not, as a wise prison guard once pointed out to me?” He arched an eyebrow. “And as an enforcer of the law, I choose to make this as convenient for me as possible. Under the terms of your parole, you shall report to me two evenings a week.”

The spark in those eyes—the utter sense of mirth—so captivated Javert that all he could do was stare. Then Valjean tipped his head back and laughed. It was the laugh of a freed man.

“It would be my pleasure to, Inspector Javert.”

“Starting tonight,” Javert said, emphatically, signaling the end of Valjean’s long work day. He took Valjean’s flashlight and turned it off. The darkness overpowered the single candle flame that still remained, and in the dark, everything felt familiar again somehow, felt right. “I don’t believe you know where I live. I would be remiss to require your presence and not provide you with the necessary information to reach me.”

Valjean rounded the desk and held the office door open for Javert.

“Lead the way, _mon cogne_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Petit Gervais scene is a fix-it I've been waiting for _ages_ to write. It sparked the idea of this entire fic. It was why I needed to bring in the Doctor -- so I can change the one thing I so wish to be able to offer to Jean Valjean in the novel. *huggles him* He got a real clean slate, the only way for him and Javert to start over again.
> 
> 2\. And here we are! This is the unofficial end of the story. Next chapter will be the epilogue. I can't believe it's been two months and 90k+ words. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> As always, I welcome your thoughts and feedback!


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of our heroes' adventure; the beginning of the rest of their lives.

And now, dear readers, we have come to the end of our present story. I shall not burden you with the mundane details of M. Madeleine’s daily governance over Montreuil-sur-Mer, nor do I need to, I believe, belabor the point of how Inspector Javert returned to his post with renewed vigor, enforcing law and order among the city’s inhabitants, albeit with such a transformation that, though baffling to all at first, had by no means diminished his policing efficacy and, in time, had earned him much respect and admiration where previously there had only been suspicion and fear. What of our heroes’ continued rapport among each other, you may ask? To this, I shall point out that Montreuil-sur-Mer was not so unlike other cities, which, like them, had its population of idle gossipers and busybodies who were only too eager to trail every movement of their beloved Mayor and Inspector.

It was young Henri, a dock worker who kept to a night schedule, who first noticed the Mayor’s frequent visits to the Inspector’s home after the sun had set. Two evenings each week, to be precise. M. Madeleine had resumed his nightly stroll to the docks to dispense his alms to the poor. But whereas prior to his disappearance he would take the path away from the docks to return to his abode, twice a week, he would walk further into the poorer parts of the city until he could be seen knocking on and entering the Inspector’s home. His visits were never overly long, though young Henri (who happened to also live in the poorer parts of town, for no, he did not trail behind the Mayor or stand guard outside the Inspector’s house, not at all) had admitted to lapsing into sleep some nights, after the visits ceased to become newsworthy to the curious minds of Montreuil-sur-Mer; the townsfolk had long relegated the visits to the two gentlemen’s need to share company after what must have been a harrowing experience during their disappearance. And if on certain occasions the Mayor was spotted leaving the Inspector’s home less composed than usual, his white hair more ruffled, the blame was placed squarely on Montreuil-sur-Mer’s ever-present whisk of sea wind. Some nights, Henri’s sleep-hazed mind could not recall seeing the Mayor return home.

And what of the state of Montreuil-sur-Mer, you ask? Bernard, a _sou_ -pinching merchant if there ever was one, frequently visited the mairie on the grounds of appealing against this fine or that business tax. Thus a better testifier one could not have found to bear witness to the much improved working relationship between the Mayor and the Inspector. A consummate eavesdropper though he refused to admit it, Bernard had acquired a certain expertise at deciphering the changed sentiments behind the Inspector’s use of _Monsieur le Maire_ (formerly hostile, now almost reverent) and the Mayor’s use of _Javert_ (formerly cold, now almost… fond). It was Bernard who started the rumors that the Mayor’s Christian name was Jean, and that the Inspector tolerated the good Madeleine calling him by the informal argot “copper.” Gossips of a personal nature aside, the continued flourishing of Montreuil-sur-Mer was indisputable evidence that the works of the Mayor and Inspector had benefitted the city. In two short years, an additional school was built, and the constabulary began an apprenticeship program that allowed children who grew up in the slums to enter the police force as _gendarmes_ -in-training when they came of age.

The reader must not assume, however, that Jean Valjean and Javert had ceased to be at odds with each other. There were certainly times when they disagreed, though those instances were few and far between.

During an incident with more witnesses than the town’s tavern had benches to hold them all, the Mayor had braved danger—and, some said, death—by saving Old Man Fauchelevent from being crushed to death by his own cart. While the rescue generated much cheer from the crowd, more than one person had noted that the Inspector wore a most displeased expression on his countenance the entire time. As soon as M. Madeleine emerged from the cart, he was at the Mayor’s side at once, a scowl on his face, combined with a glimpse of something so peculiar that one could almost conjecture that the dear Inspector had the capacity in him to worry. Madeleine had to hold up a hand to halt the Inspector’s tirade. For his part, the Inspector obeyed, though not without pursing his lips in irritation as he stormed away from the crowd. Some said he made more than ten arrests later that day.

The one confrontation that the citizens of Montreuil-sur-Mer would never forget was the two gentlemen’s dispute over a certain prostitute named Fantine. _Mère_ Thérèse’s account had garnered the most interest (though many had questioned, rightfully, its accuracy): the Inspector had insisted on sending the prostitute to jail for assaulting a gentleman, an act which the Mayor had intervened upon his arrival at the police station. Unwilling to yield, the Inspector was heard (for many a curious soul had gathered outside of the constabulary at the onset of what sounded like an argument) disobeying the Mayor’s direct orders, at which time the Mayor cited several articles of the Criminal Code and appointed himself judge over the matter. It was at this point that _Mère_ Thérèse recalled hearing (though as a woman of nigh seventy, surely she would be dull of hearing?) the Inspector repeating the word “criminal” as if hurling the charge back at the Mayor. In one of her more elaborate versions of the story, she would claim to have heard the utterance of several numbers as well (though when one asked her to recall even one of those numbers, she could not). “A terrible stretch of silence followed,” _Mère_ Thérèse’s account went thus, “and then in a horrifying voice which I have never thought the good M. Madeleine capable of using, he boomed: _Out!_ Now, I am but a simple woman, and it pains me so to imagine our city’s respectable leaders in disagreement. Surely the Mayor has heard his share of insults over the years? And would not ‘criminal’ be a common epithet for someone like an inspector to use? I confess my ignorance, for I cannot see why the name-calling, though inappropriate, would anger the Mayor so. Oh, I will never forget the Inspector’s face when he emerged from the constabulary! He was pale as a ghost, and I dare say he was trembling so violently that his steps had faltered. He paid no attention to the crowd gathered outside of the police station, it was as if he was seeing past us.” According to the townsfolk, the Mayor and the Inspector were not seen in the same room for an entire week after this incident.

In the spring of that same year, Marie, who worked with the Sisters at Montreuil-sur-Mer’s hospital, witnessed an altercation between the Mayor and the Inspector when she was charged with going to the mairie to deliver a message regarding the recovery of a certain patient to the Mayor. From what she had inadvertently seen and heard through an opening to the door of the Mayor’s office, the Inspector had held a missive in his hand, and the town “Arras” was mentioned many times. The Inspector then disappeared for two days, seemingly on a trip (to Arras? This was the consensus among Montreuil-sur-Mer’s gossip-bearers). Not one hour after the Inspector’s departure, the Mayor was seen attempting to arrange for a fiacre, only to find that the Inspector had drawn upon an old town law that gave him power to bar the public from accessing for-hire transportation that day, including the magistrate. Unlike the incident with the prostitute, the Mayor did not flare in anger upon discovering the Inspector’s insolence but became contemplative, blood drained from his face, and Marie later reported having seen the pious man spend many an hour at the hospital’s chapel even as others confirmed seeing the Mayor remain in prayer long after the conclusion of the Saint-Saulve Abbey Church’s nightly mass. On the evening when the Inspector returned from his journey, he went directly to the Mayor’s home, doubtless to give a report on his trip. Unrelated, young Henri dozed off that same evening and did not espy the Inspector returning home.

Alas, I fear these many accounts are becoming too cumbersome for the reader to keep in good order in your mind. Perhaps it is sufficient to simply say that Jean Valjean and Javert continued to love and hurt each other, to challenge and accept one another’s differing views, and to do the best they could to make the city of Montreuil-sur-Mer flourish. Some say they continued to visit each other after they had moved to Paris. But since even the most prying town gossiper was unable to continue observing the former Mayor and the promoted Inspector once they departed from Montreuil-sur-Mer, I cannot relegate this claim as fact. I present it to the reader only as an unconfirmed rumor.

As for the adventures of the Doctor and Clara, it should please the reader to know that their encounters with the citizens of France have not ended with their good-byes to Jean Valjean and Javert. They are, after all, time travelers, and despite having the freedom to travel in all of time and space, the Doctor maintains a curious attachment to Earth and, it seems, to France.

-

**_Spring 1875, Paris_ **

“You know, when I suggested to Pierre that he should spend more time with his friend, I didn’t mean for him to paint yet another portrait of Claude _working_. Those two, do they ever stop painting?”

Clara says nothing as she walks in step with the Doctor, basking in the warm sunlight of the Parisian spring. This isn’t her first time in Paris, not technically, if one considers her other lives and their past journeys to France. But she has never realized how truly beautiful the city is when seen through the eyes of artists. She now knows what it means when the Impressionists see the golden sunlight kiss each blossoming flower, or when the symphony of the Seine resounds with the rushing melodies of the water’s dances, when each foamed wave and swirling eddy seems to interplay so gracefully with one another. She looks down as they cross one of the bridges that weave their paths like stone rainbows over the waters. Even the rocks that make up these bridges change their hues as the sun draws out gleams of yellow, brown, red, and grey at different times of the day, traversing the sky from east to west, warming faces and lengthening shadows with its rising and setting.

The Doctor, on the other hand, seems completely oblivious to the beauty surrounding him and keeps on complaining. “I swear, if we hadn’t come to their rescue, Claude would have been swallowed by the monster and Pierre would have lost at least two of his limbs.”

“Pierre- _Auguste_ ,” Clara interrupts. “He’s already cross enough by you not addressing him as Monsieur Renoir. I wouldn’t try his patience by cutting his name short.”

“Too many syllables,” the Doctor grumbles. Clara almost points out that he’s being inconsistent. For the entire time during their last adventure, the Doctor has chosen to call the good mayor Madeleine instead of Jean. Now which name has more syllables? “And besides, Claude is so much nicer, more relaxed. Claude Monet. See? His entire name has fewer syllables than Renoir’s first names!”

Clara tugs the Doctor by his arm. “Right, great observation, I totally agree. But aren’t we going to pick out some art for me to bring home? There’s an art dealer shop ahead. Want to try that one?”

“Yes! Art dealerships, I love art dealerships!” The Doctor disentangles himself from Clara and jumps, bounces, and springs his way toward the shop, not caring a bit about how many pairs of eyes are now staring at him. Most of the men and women out and about are nicely dressed and hold themselves properly. No wonder they’re all sending disapproving looks their way.

Before Clara can catch up with the Doctor, a woman who has been paying close attention to the strangers _du jour_ approaches her. She is an older lady who looks to be just under sixty, with greying hair tied back into a bun and a slender figure, poised and beautiful in her graciously aged face. She must have been stunningly attractive when she was younger. Clara decides she likes her. The old lady reminds her of her grandmother.

Unlike the others, this woman doesn’t seem to appear scandalized. If Clara looks closely, she might even detect happiness on that face. A good ten paces behind her, a younger, female companion stands with a stiff posture, clearly uncomfortable at being asked to stand back as her mistress accosts a potentially dangerous stranger. Clara puts on her biggest, brightest smile. “Hello there, my name is Clara,” she says.

The lady’s eyes light up even more. “Oh, you are Clara! So it is true! Oh I am so happy to have finally found you! Ah, forgive me, Mademoiselle, I am not making any sense. I do not mean to confound you and I certainly hope you are not alarmed. You see, I have been looking for you and the Doctor for many years and am beginning to despair of ever fulfilling my promise to my father…”

“The Doctor? You know the Doctor?”

A faint blush spreads across the lady’s face and, for several seconds, Clara thinks she is looking at the soul of a little girl inside an old body. There is so much _life_ in this lady, like a radiant angel taught to fly by and who blossomed under the care of the kindest father in the world.

“Please, forgive me, again. I shall start at the beginning. My name is Cosette Pontmercy, _née_ Fauchelevent. You do not know me, but my father once traveled with you and the Doctor. He goes by the name Ultime Fauchelevent in Paris, though I believe you and the Doctor know him as M. Madeleine of Montreuil-sur-Mer.”

“Madeleine!” The Doctor’s voice screeches an undignified, but very happy, squeal behind them. Clara turns around, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, Clara, we need to find another art dealership. This one won’t do—I’ll explain later. But that’s not important for now. Sorry to join the conversation late. Madame Cosette, is it? Hello –” He reaches out a hand. “I’m the Doctor.”

Cosette takes his hand graciously as she lowers herself into a curtsy. She then takes Clara’s hand as well. Such a lovely woman, by all accounts. Clara realizes she can think of no other person other than Madeleine who would be capable of raising such a daughter.

“Doctor, Clara,” Cosette says, and Clara gets the feeling that she’s passing on a message that she has rehearsed in her mind hundreds of times over the past decades, “I have a missive for you, from my father. He passed many years ago but has never forgotten you. He made me promise to deliver this to you. Both he and Inspector Javert sent their regards.”

“Inspector Javert! How is he? Or was, I suppose, unless he’s in his nineties? Not that I would put it pass him. He seems the type who would remain standing as a thousand-year-old man by sheer force of will alone –”

“The inspector is no longer with us, alas. But both he and Papa passed at a good old age.”

Despite being sad at hearing the news, Clara flashes a smile at the Doctor. The Doctor wouldn’t admit it, but for hours after they had dropped their two French guests back in Montreuil-sur-Mer, he didn’t stop second-guessing himself for not trying to interfere with Javert and Madeleine more. Clara had reassured him that everything would be alright. Apparently, everything did turn out alright.

Cosette continues, “I was an orphaned child at a young age. Papa took me in shortly after my mother passed away. We stayed at Montreuil-sur-Mer for many years, until the inspector was promoted to work directly at the Paris Prefecture. Papa remained Mayor for another year and we then moved to 55 Rue Plumet here in Paris. The inspector visited us often.”

Cosette takes out an envelope, which she must be carrying with her at all times. Given the erratic timing of the Doctor’s travels that both Madeleine and Javert were so well acquainted with, Clara supposes that must be part of Madeleine’s instructions to his daughter as well.

“This is the letter that I am to give you. It was Inspector Javert who remembered your initial intended destination, to meet the painter Claude Monet. When Monsieur Monet started becoming well known, I began to pay close attention to the whereabouts of his exhibitions and _salon_ gatherings, in the event that you do visit.

“But oh, do excuse me, Doctor and Clara, you must be tired of hearing the recounting of history from an old woman. Oh, what a happy day this is to finally meet you! God is truly good.”

Clara takes the envelope from Cosette’s hand and is just about to open it when the Doctor places a hand on her arm. “Spoilers,” he whispers, tilting his head ever so slightly toward Cosette. Oh, right. Cosette is not a time traveler and probably shouldn’t have her timeline crossed with her father’s no matter how insignificant the content of the letter may be. The Doctor continues in a louder voice, “Thank you, Madame Pontmercy _née_ Fauchelevent. Would you care for some coffee or tea? We can show you the TARDIS, if you want.”

Cosette shakes her head. “Thank you for the offer, Doctor. But traveling with you was something so dear to Papa’s heart, I believe I should let that remain his and Inspector Javert’s treasured secret. I am gratified that I am able to fulfill his final wish, and for that, Doctor and Clara, I will be forever grateful.”

A thousand thoughts run through Clara’s mind as they bid Cosette _adieu_ and watch her rejoin her attending companion. The two women cross the bridge back to the other side and soon, fade into the crowd among the backdrop of other Parisians. Cosette seems to have implied Madeleine and Javert shared visits together. Were they happy? Did their visits grow into something more, judging by how big a part of her life the inspector seemed to have played for Cosette?

The Doctor, snatching the envelope from her hand, draws Clara out of her thoughts. Oh yes, the letter. She waits as he tears open the envelope greedily and starts reading its content aloud.

“January, 1824. Dear Doctor and Clara, I am doing well, Inspector Javert is doing well, and Montreuil-sur-Mer is doing well. We will forever hold fond memories of traveling with you. Javert insists on writing a letter to you. As I have nothing further to report, I will let him pass on what urgent message he has in mind. I trust you are both enjoying your travels. We think of you often. I bid you God speed. Sincerely, Jean Valjean. P.S., Doctor, Clara: do not be misled by Valjean. There is no urgent message to relay. I merely see the need to point out that it is now the year of our Lord 1824. I trust the significance of this date, and of our writing to you from Montreuil-sur-Mer, both alive and of sound mind, is not lost to you. Regards, Javert.”

“What does the inspector mean, that 1824 is not lost to you?” Clara asks, and the Doctor simply smiles—no—beams. She knows better than to press for an answer. The Doctor will tell her sooner or later. So, hearing no response, she changes the subject. “So why can’t we buy art from the shop over there?”

“Oh, yes, that shop! Here, I’ll show you, but we can’t get too close.” The Doctor leads her toward the quaint little art dealership, with a sign at the front that reads Goupil & Co. and a red-haired young man tending to the collection inside, unaware that he is being observed.

“See the man in there, the apprentice shop keeper? That’s Vincent van Gogh, one of the most amazing future artists in all of the universe.”

Vincent van Gogh! Clara would love a chance to meet him. “Should we go say hi?” she asks, though she’s pretty sure what the answer would be judging by the Doctor’s sudden shyness. But it’s worth asking anyway.

“No, can’t, or at least _I_ can’t. Still too early in his timeline. We don’t meet until he goes to Arles in another twelve years or so. He hasn’t even started painting professionally yet. He’s only about twenty-two, twenty-three? In another year he’s going to seminary and then work in a parish among coal miners and the poor. I can see that phase of him getting along swimmingly with Madeleine.” The Doctor looks into the shop some more, his eyes in silent greeting to a young art dealer obvlious to the fact that his life’s calling is neither selling other people’s art or to save souls by preaching the Bible, but that he’s destined to paint sunflowers and starry nights in a way that only he can see them, so full of wonder in every detail. And that, some day, the beauty of his creations will warm and sculpt souls in a much more profound way than any words or letters can even compare.

“It’s good to see him so young, so full of life,” the Doctor says, turning away. “Come, let’s go back to the TARDIS.”

“You’ve never forgotten him, have you?” Clara asks as they walk, suddenly finding the bustling streets of Paris too quiet for her racing thoughts.

The Doctor shakes his head. “How can I? Vincent saved my life, saved Amy’s. I broke the laws of Time to show him the future, to let him know how much people will love his art and hail him as the world’s greatest artist. Yet I still couldn’t save Vincent from himself in the end.”

“But I’m sure you made a huge difference in his life.”

“That’s what I try to do, yes.” The Doctor smiles, emerging from his melancholy. “So, where do you want to go next?”

 _Home_ , Clara’s heart answers. It’s been a long time. “We’ve had a very eventful Wednesday, don’t you think? I do need to get back to my other responsibilities.”

“Ah, yes, right. Maybe next Wednesday then? Oh, and say hi to Ian for me. If he and Barbara ever want to revisit old memories, let them know they’ll always be welcome.”

“You mean to say…”

“Yes, how many other Ian Chesterton of Coal Hill School is there? I really should drop by and pay him a visit. Head of the Board of Governors! He was just a science teacher at the school when we first met, back in 1963. Ian Chesterton and Barbara Wright, teachers of my granddaughter Susan, always the two of them together. I wonder if they’re still married? They’re both great. I wasn’t the nicest bloke back in the days when I was my first self. But even so, they’ve put up with me quite wonderfully…”

Clara nods every so often as a smile spreads across her face. The Doctor, _her_ Doctor, would never stop running to and from things throughout the universe. But if she ever has any doubt that all he does is meet people and then leave them behind, she knows she doesn’t have to worry. Every person whose life the Doctor enters would always have a part of him with them, and they in his hearts. The Doctor never forgets. Not Ian and Barbara, not Vincent, not Jack, not Novice Hame, not River, not Amy and Rory Pond, and never Jean Valjean and Javert.

As for her, she won’t ever forget the Doctor, not in any of her lives that are spanned throughout time and space, and certainly not this life, the first to get to know the Doctor and to love him and save him. She looks up at a face brimming with the hopes and promises of the universe waiting for them to discover. They have all of time and space for that. But for now, she’s going home, and there’s nowhere else she would rather be.

Life is good.

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Doctor and Amy Pond visited Vincent van Gogh in [Vincent and the Doctor](http://tardis.wikia.com/wiki/Vincent_and_the_Doctor_%28TV_story%29).
> 
> 2\. This is it, the *final* end! Thank you SO MUCH for reading and sticking with this fic. This story took me through some pretty major transitions. As the constant amid all my life changes, it will always be extra special for me.
> 
> If you’ve come this far, would you please leave a comment and let me know your thoughts? I’m particularly curious about how you came across this fic. Did you come here because of Les Mis, or because of Doctor Who? Please don’t be shy to just say hi!
> 
> Finally, THANK YOU for all your encouragement and love. I honestly never imagined I would get such positive responses when I first started this massive writing project. This was a story that begged to be written, so I was going to finish it no matter what. But to have all your lovely comments and kudos along the way meant so much to me. And please know that your comments made a difference—I have added scenes and tweaked the characters’ story arcs based on your feedback. So again, thank you!


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